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// 


/y     -  A^ 


1.0 


M    12.5 


i^  1^    12.2 


-  BA    '^ 


I.I 


us 


lAO 


11.25 


6" 


2.0 


iJil 

1.4    11 1.6 


m 


//, 


^  %  S 


7 


"4'V'^ 


/A 


'/ 


Photographic 

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Corporation 


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10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


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12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


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required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  — »-  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 

Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diff^rents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  6tre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 


t. 


Ptjxf  25  Cents. 


THE  CHIMNEY  CORNER  SERIES, 


Na  44» 


JM    vUPTOPi.   '    PUBLISHER,   - 


NEW  •     i^K' 


1 


.r 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  CLIFFS 


BY  MRS.  MAY  AGNES  FLEMING. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE    TWO    FKIBNDS. 

"And   i*6j  hanie,    hatne,    hanie, 
1  fain  wad  be— 
Jbiame,  hanie,  hiime, 
„  In  my  ain  countrie." 

".•-'_.".  —Allen  Cunningham. 

•rMoRNiNG  on  the  oceani  Gradually 
K>/ie  the  sun  in  the  red  east,  sailing  slow- 
ly arnd  majestically  toward  the  meridian 
—a  burning  jewel  of  fire  set  in  the  deep-, 
blue  sky.  Light,  fleecy  clouds  dotted  the 
azure  firniament  here  ahd  there,  looking 
as  pure  and  as  stainless  as  snowillkes 
or  the  white  wings  of  angels.  The 
balmy  «iputh  breezie  scarcely  rippled  the 
surface  of  the  deep,  or  filled  the  canvas 
of  the. good  ship  Mermaid,  as  she  glided 
gracefully  onward,  bound  for  the  bright 
shores  of  Amiferica. 

The  day  was  intensely  hot.  The  crew 
fay  in  groups,  idly,  about  the  deck.  The 
captain— a  stately-looking  man  or  forty 
or  thereabouts— paced  up  and  down  the 
quarter-deck— now  letting  his  eyes  wan- 
der over  his  men,  or  giving  them  some 
order;  now  looking  aloft  with  a  sailor's 
pride  in  his  handsome  craft;  and  now 
raising  his  glass  tp  sweep  the  horizon, 
on  which  no  living  thing  was  to  be  seen 
save  themselves. 

;  I;*eanihg  over  the  tafCrail,  stood  two 
young  men.  The  elder  appeared  to  be 
dbout  twenty-five"  years  of  ^e— tall  and 
finely  proportioned,  with  an  eye  like  an 
eagle  and  liair  that 

"To_  shame  might  bring. 


The  plumage  bt  the  raven's  wing 

He  stopd  leaning  over  the  side,  his  eyes 
fixed  thoughtfully  on  the  spray  flash- 
ing in  the  sunlight  as  the  ship  cut  her 
way  through  the  rippling  waves.  His 
hat  was  off,  and  the  cool  breeze  lifted 
lightly  tJie  jetty  locks  off  his  high,  white 
brow. 

His  companion  was  a  youth  some  three 
or  faui'' 'years 'his  Junior,  with  a  frank, 
haridsOtfte  face,  and  laughing  hazel  eyes. 
Hid  look  of  careless  ease  was  very  dil- 
\tereprit  from  the  iproud  reserve  of  his 
cqtnp&nioii,  bilt  some  secret  bond  of/ 
sj^mpath];  tioundi  ttio^e  two  together.    .  v?*  j- 


"Well,  Fred,"  said  the  younger  of  the 
two,  continuing  their  conversation, 
"since,  as  you  say,  you  neither  have  a 
lady-love  in  America  nor  expect  a  leg- 
acy there,  T  confess  it  puzzles  me  to 
know  what  inducement  could  have  been 
strong  enough  to  make  you  quit  Paris." 

"Very  easily  told,  my  dear  fellow;  I 
have  started  for  America  at  the  exprews 
command  of  my   worthy   fatiier." 

"Whew!  what  a  dutiful  son  you  are, 
Fred.  And,  pray,  what  has  brought  Sir 
William  to  that  rebellious  land?" 

"To  assist  in  subduing  the  rebellious 
Yankees,  of  course!"  replied  the  young 
man,  with  a  slight  sneer  on  his  well-cut 
Hp  ' 

"And  he  wishes  his  son  and  heir  to 
aid  him  in  that  laudable  design,  instead 
of  spending  his  time  making  love  in 
Paris?" 

"Yes;  he  has  obtained  for  me  the  |X)St 
of  lieutenant  in  the  British  army,  he 
says." 

"Which  you  will,  of  course,  accept?" 
said  the  younger  of  the  two,  with  a  pe- 
culiar smiie,  as  he  lit.  a  cigar,  and  blew 
a  whiff  of  smoke  from  the  corner  of  his 
•mouth. 

"Which  I  most  decidedly  will  not!" 
I'epiied  Fred,  coolly. 

"And  why,  may  1  ask?" 

"Why?  What  a  question  for  you  to 
ask,  Gus!  Am  I  not  an  American  by 
birth— an  American  in  heart  and  soul — 
a  thousand  times  prouder  of.  the  glori- 
ous land  in  which  I  was  born  than  •  of 
iny  father's  broad  acres  in  merrle  Eng- 
land? Why?  I  tell  you,  Gus  Elliott,  1 
will  join  the  ranks  of  my  countrymen, 
and  fight  and  conquer  or  die  with  them 
in  defense  of  their  cause!" 

He  stood  erect,  while  his  eagle  eye 
flashed,  and  his  dark  oheek  glowed  with 
the  enthusiasm  with  which  he  spoke.      -. 

Gus  stood  regarding  him  with  some- 
thing like  admiration  struggling  through 
his  usual  look  of  careless  indifference. 

"WeII,'«  he  said,  after  a  pause,  "I  cail 
that  pretty  strong  language  for  the  son 
of  such  a  stanch  royalist  as  Sir.W;iltiam 
Stanley.  What  do  you  suppose  your  hon- 
ored father  will  say  when  he  seea  his 
son  turn  rebel?" 


'Doubtless."    said    Fred,    quietly, 


.r 


THE    Ht:  If  At  IT    OF    TIJIC    CLU'TH. 


will  be  In  a  towering  passion,  and  rather 
nmazpfl  that  any  one  should  presume  to 
disobey  hlH  commands.  I  have  long 
known  it  must,  sooner  «)r  later,  come  to 
this.  When  this  wai  t:rst  eommenced 
bow  often  has  my  blood  boiled  with  Im- 
potent rage,  listening  to  the  insults  and 
sneers  of  him  and  his  tory  friends  on 
the  'reVel  Yankees,'  as  they  contemptu- 
ously called  them.  How  I  did  long,  then, 
to  leave  England  and  fly  to  my  native 
land,  to  aid  her  sons  in  their  brave 
struggles  for  Independence!  I  would 
have  done  so.  but  I  shrank  from  the 
Htorm  of  passion  which  I  knew  must 
follow  it.  When  my  father  left  Eng- 
land to  join  his  Britannic  Majesty's 
army  in  America,  I  left  for  Paris,  lest 
he  should  desire  me  to  follow  him.  and 
thus  hasten  a  disclosure  of  our  oppo- 
site sentiments.  Three  weeks  ago  I  re- 
ceived his  command  to  Join  him  Instant- 
ly. It  seems  some  rumor  of  my  true 
sentiments  has  reached  him;  and,  in- 
dignant that  any  one  should  presume  to 
question  the  loyalty  of  a  son  of  his,  he 
desires  me  to  vindicate  my  allegiance  to 
his  gracious  Majesty,  and  wipe  off  such 
a  stain  on  his  name  by  Immediately  ac- 
cepting the  post  he  has  obtained  for 
me  In  the  army.  Any  further  conceal- 
jnent  is,  of  course,  out  of  the  question, 
and  I  thank  Heaven  It  Is  so;  for  It  seems 
to  me  a  craven  act  In  any  one  to  remain 
an  idle  spectator  while  his  native  land, 
in  her  struggles  for  freedom,  calls  all 
her  sons   to   her  aid." 

He  leaned  his  'ead  on  his  hand,  and 
gazed  thoughtfully  on  the  bright  waves 
below. 

'For  inyrelf,"  said  Gus,  who  had  been 
deeply  Impressed  by  Fred's  earnestness, 
"I  always  sympathized  with  the  Col- 
onies, but  it  was  merely  the  natural 
feeling  which  all  must  experience  when 
they  see  a  band  of  brave  pien  struggling 
for  freedom.  As  in  your  case,  America 
is  the  land  of  my  birth;  but.  up  to  the 
present.  1  have  been  absent  from  it  so 
long  that  I  had  almost  ceased  to  regard 
it  as  such.  Now,  however,  my  feelings 
are  changed.  Together,  Fred,  we  will 
fight  the  battles  of  our  native  land;  ev- 
ery arm  that  will  lift  Itself  In  her  de- 
fense Is  needed  now." 

"Your  sentiments  do  you  honor,  my 
dear  Gus;  but,  as  you  asked  me  before, 
what   will   your  friends  say?" 

"Oh!  I  have  no  friends  worth  men- 
tioning," replied  Gus,  resuming  his  for- 
mer Indifferent  tone.  '1  am  an  orphan, 
you  know,  with  a  bank-stock  sufficient 
for  all  my  wants,  with  no  relations  that 
I  know  of  except  an  uncle  in  America, 
whom  I  have  not  seen  these  ten  years. 
And  I  tell  you  what,"  he  added,  with  a 
sudden  animation,  "he  has  two  con- 
foundedly pretty  daughters— especially 
younger.  I  used  to  be  desperately 
iove  with  Nell,  as  a  boy." 


"Indeed."  said  Fred,  smiling,  "and  who 
is  this  uncle  of  yours?— a  Tory,  no 
doubt." 

"You  had  better  »)elleve  it!"  said  Gus. 
"Major  Perclval  hates  the  rebels  as  h*- 
hates  Old  Harry.  Of  course,  I'll  be  dis- 
owned when  he  hears  what  I've  done. 
Every  one  has  his  own  peculiar  hobby: 
and  pride  of  birth  is  Major  Percival's. 
If  you  were  only  to  hear  him,  Fred. 
He  dates  his  descent  back  to  the  days 
of  Noah,  and  a  good  deal  further;  lor 
some  of  his  ancestors,  I  believe,  were 
drowned  In  the  flood.  His  lady,  too,  Mrs. 
Perclval.  Is  the  granddaughter  of  a  lord: 
so  you  see  the  major  has  some  founda- 
tion for  his  family  pride.  He's  as  rich 
as  Croesus,    too." 

"And  Miss  Nell,  I  suppose.  Is  heiress 
to  his  wealth?" 

"Not  she,  faith.  Major  Perclval  has 
a  son  and  daughter  beside;  Nell's  the 
youngest.  You  ought  to  know  Nugent 
Perclval;  he's  a  glorious  fellow,  and  nn 
mistake— about  your  age,  too,  I  should 
think." 

"I  may  see  them  all  yet — who  knows?" 
said  Fred.  "I  wish  this  voyage  were  over.. 
I  long  to  see  my  father  and  tell  him  all. 
and  join  the  patriot  army  of  Washing- 
ton." 

"You  told  me  you  were  born  In  Amer- 
ica," said  Gus,  after  a  pause.  "I  thought 
Lady  Stanley  was  an  Englishwoman, 
and  had  never  crossed  the  Atlantic 
ocean  In  her  life. 

"The  Lady  Stanley  you  knew  was  not 
my  mother,"  said  Fred,  coldly.  * 

"She  was  not!  That's  something  I 
never  heard  before,''  exclaimed  Gus,  in 
unbounded  surprise. 

"It's  none  the  less  true  on  that  ae> 
count,"  replied  Fred,  while  a  slight  flush 
crimsoned  his  dark  cheek.  "My  mother 
was  an  American  born;  she  lived,  died, 
and  was  bvwled  In  .that  land." 

"Well,  now,  that's  odd."  said  Gus. 
puffing  meditatively  on  his  cigar.  "Come, 
Fred,  make  a  clean  breast  of  it;  I  made 
an  open  confession  to  you;  and  one  good 
turn,  you  imow,  deserves  another." 

The  young  man  smiled  slightly,  and 
then  his  face  grew   serious — almost   sad. 

"Very  few  know  my  history,"  he  said, 
with  a  half  sigh,  "but  Avith  you,  my  dear 
Gus,  I  know  I  may  speak  freely.  Many 
years  ago,  when  my  father  was  a  young 
man,  business  or  pleasure — I  know  not 
which — called  him  to  America.  While 
there  he  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
young  girl  far  beneath  him  in  wealth 
and  rank,  but  his  equal  in  education, 
and  his  superior  in  moral  worth.  Bewil- 
dered by  her  beauty,  he  forgot  their  dif- 
ferent degrees  of  rank,  and  the  young 
girl  became  his  wife.  His  marriage  was 
kept  a  secret  from  his  proud  friends  in 
England,  and  Sir  William  knew  that 
there  was  little  fear  of  their  ever  diK- 
covering  it,  for  prudence  had  not  be^n 


vvh€ 
was 
G^ 
ing 

but! 
bac 


1X1 


THE    HERMIT    OF    TUB    CLIFFS. 


frngotti-n  by  love,  and  he  had  wooed  and 
won  Jitr  under  an  assumed  name.  My 
mother  never  dreamed  her  husband  was 
aught  but  one  of  her  own  station,  and  It 
was   my   father's  aim    not   to   undeceive 

her." 

"It  was  a  confoundedly  mean  trick!" 
interrupted  Gus,  indignantly. 

"When  I  was  about  nine  years  old," 
continued  Fred,  unmindful  of  his  words, 
'my  father  started  for  England,  as  he 
said,  on  business.  As  he  was  frequently 
in  the  habit  of  doing  so,  my  mother  was 
not  surprised;  but  her  husband  had  by 
this  time  outgrown  his  love  for  her,  and 
when,  five  months  after,  he  returned,  it 
was  as  the  husband  of  another." 

Gus  was  again  about  to  make  a  pass- 
ing remark  on  Sir  William's  conduct, 
but  suddenly  i  becking  himself,  he  sank 
back  in  silence. 

"He  told  her  all,"  went  on  Fred,  with 
stern  briefness;  "his  rank,  his  title;  told 
her  he  was  the  husband  of  another,  and 
that  she  must  no  longer  consider  herself 
his  wife.  He  said  he  had  come  for  me, 
to  take  me  with  him  to  England;  that 
I  was  his  son,  <end  should  be  educated 
as  became  a  Stanley.  My  poor  mother 
shrieked  and  clung  to  me,  but  I  was 
forcibly  torn  from  iier  arms.  They  said 
she  fell  to  the  ground  like  one  dead, 
and  from  that  hour  never  spoke  again. 
One  week  after,  she  was  laid  in  her 
grave." 

.  F-ed  paused,  while  the  veins  In  his 
forehead  grew  dark,  and  his  voice  choked 
with  suppressed  emotion. 

"But  she  was  avenged,"  he  continued, 
lifting  his  head,  while  his  eyes  flashed; 
"she  had  a  brother,  absent  at  the  time, 
but  who,  on  his  return,  heard  the  story 
from  the  sexton  who  had  buried  my 
mother.  His  oath  of  vengeance  was 
fearful,  and  fearfully  kept.  Five  years 
passed  away.  Sir  William  and  Lady 
Stanley  had  but  one  child,  a  daughter, 
whom  they  Idolized.  Leila  was  the  gen- 
tlest and  most  beautiful  creature  I  ever 
saw.  Words  cannot  tell  you,  Gus,  how 
I  loved  that  child.  One  day,  as  the  nurse 
was  walking  with  her  through  the 
grounds  of  Stanley  Park,  a  man.  dressed 
in  the  rough  garb  of  a  sailor,  sprang 
from  behind  the  trees,  and.  In  spite  of 
the  shrieks  and  struggles  of  the  at- 
tendants, bore  her  off. 

"The  nurse,  wild  with  terror,  fled  back 
to  the  house,  and,  meeting  Sir  William 
on  the  piazza,  fell,  fainting,  at  his  feet. 
When  she  recovered,  she  related  what 
had  happened,  and  the  consternation 
and  horror  her  recital  produced  may  be 
better  imagined  than  described.  There 
was  no  doubt  in  Sir  William's  mind  as 
to  who  had  done  the  deed.  The  abduc- 
tor had  left  a  message:  'Tell  Sir  Will 
Stanley.'  said  he,  'that  my  sister  is 
avenges!'  Search  was  made  in  every 
direction,    enormous    rewards    were    of- 


fered, the  police  were  put  on  the  track. 
but  all  in  vain.  Not  the  slightest  clue 
to  Leila  could  be  obtained,  it  was  the 
belief  cif  every  one  that  the  sailor  had 
destroyed  the  child  to  escape  detection." 

"It  is  more  than  probable"  said  Gus. 
"Poor  Lady  Stanli-y!  I  can  now  under* 
stand  the  cause  of  the  strange  melan- 
choly that  used  to  puzzle  me  so  much." 

"She  never  smiled  from  that  day,"  said 
Fled.  "Had  the  child  died  she  would 
have  grieved,  but  such  grief  is  as  noth- 
ing. It  was  the  terrible  uncertainty  as 
to  its  fa'.o  that  weighed  on  her  heart. 
It  was  well  shf  did  not  survive  it  long." 

"And  Sir  William,  how  did  he  bear  the 
loss?"  inquired  Hus. 

"He  became  a  changed  r^an  from  that 
day.  He  gr«\v  stern,  mor  jse,  and  harsh 
to  all.  I  have  no  doubt  he  felt  it  to  be 
a  ju.st  retribution  for  his  conduct  to  his 
first  wife,  and  this  reJiection  rendered 
his  remorse  more  bitter.  Poor  Leila! 
Dear  little  angel!  Gus,  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  I  loved  that  child!" 

He  paced  excitedly  upon  and  down, 
and  Gus  saw  there  were  tears  In  the 
deep,  dark  eyes  of  his  friend. 

"Yes,  that's  just  the  way  I  feel  about 
Nell,"  said  Gus,  who  really  was  in  a 
desperate  strait  for  something  to  say. 
and  the  deep  sigh  that  accompanied  his 
words  seemed   inexpressibly  ludicrous. 

In  spite  of  himself,  Fred  laughed  out- 
right at  his  melancholy  look,  much  to 
the  disgust  of  Gus. 

"On  my  honor,  my  dear  fellow,  you 
are  smitten.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  you 
would  be  rash  enough  to  take  a  wife 
next,"   said  Fred. 

"Rash!  I  think  it's  the  most  sensible 
thing  a  fellow  could  do.  Don't  you  ever 
intend  to  marry,   Fred?" 

"Not  I,"  said  the  other,  carelessly,  "as 
I  said  before,  liberty  or  death  for  me. 
Why,  Gus,  the  tyranny  of  King  George 
is  nothing  to  that  of  a  wife.  Don't  you 
know  what  the  French  poet.  Mauvause, 
says: 

'I  would  arlxise  a  man  to  pause 

Before  ht-  takes  a  wife. 
Indeed,   I  ov  n.  I  see    no  cause 

He  should  .  ot  pause  for  life.'  " 

"He  must  have  been  a  crusty  old 
bachelor  who  wrote  that,"  remarked 
Gus;  "as  for  me,  I  intend  to  make  fierce 
love  to  Nell  the  moment  I  land.  'Pon 
my  honor,  I'd  give  a  diamond  ring  to 
see  that  flinty  heart  of  yours  lying  at 
the  feet  of  some  graceful  little  Yankee — 
metaphorically  speaking,  of  course.  They 
say,  Fred,  the  American  ladies  are  all 
pretty!" 

"I  doubt  it." 

"You're  a  stoic,  a  cynic,  an  unbeliever 
—an  old  Diogenes  in  his  tub.     You  de- 
.eserve   to   die   an   old   bachelor.     It's   my      ,**" 
firm  and  never-to-be-shaken  belief  thatx    <-' 
you  have  been  Jilted  by  some  heartlear^C^' 


^ 


u 


iV* 


i 

A. 


THE    I'KRMIT   OF    riiH    VLIFFH. 


\. 


M 


coquette,  and  for  spite,  now  rail  at  the 
whole  Bex." 

"I  cry  you  mercy!"  said  Fred,  as  he 
JauKhinKly  ran  his  HnRiTs  through  his 
luxuriant  dark  hicks.  "I  am  now,  as  I 
ever  was,  and  always  shall  be,  'heart- 
whole,  and  fancy-free.  But  1  see,"  he 
added,  drawing  out  his  watch,  "It  is  the 
hour 

'When  lapdogs  give  themselves  the  rousing 

And  sleepy  lovers  Just  at  twelve  awake.' 

So  let  us  go  below;  the  sable  goddess  of 
the  cabin  will  presently  announce  din- 
ner Is  ready." 

And  together  the  two  young  men 
strolled  Into  the  cabin. 


•       ■       ^  CHAPTER   II.      \ 

-■''■■!      •'■        THE   WRECK. 

"Alone,  alone,  all,  all  alone. 
Alone  on  the  wide,  wide  sea." 

"I  SAY,  Jack,  old  fellow,  it'll  be  dooms- 
day before  we  reach  Boston,  at  this 
rate,"  remarked  Gus,  some  three  hours 
after  the  conversation  related  above — 
as  he,  together  with  his  friend,  stood 
once  more  on  the  deck. 

The  pleasant  breeze  of  the  morning 
had  passed  away,  and  was  succeeded  by 
a  dead  calm.  Not  a  breath  of  air  rip- 
pled the  surface  of  the  deep;  the  sails 
lay  flapping  Idly  against  the  masts;  the 
crew  lay,  gasping  for  breath,  over  the 
side  of  the  ship.  The  sun,  with  Its  fiery, 
brassy  glow,  glared  in  the  cloudless  sky, 
loosening  the  very  seams  of  the  ship 
with  the  scorching  heat,  until  every- 
thing looked  parched  and  burning.  The 
vessel  lay  motionless  on  the  glittering 
sea,  her  masts  and  ropes  reflected  on 
the  polished  surface,  as  in  a  mirror.  One 
could  almost  imagine  her  to  be  a  painted 
phip  on  a  painted  ocean — so  still,  so  life- 
less, so  sluggish  was  the  calm. 

The  old  tar  addressed  gave  his  trou- 
sers a  hitch,  turned  an  enormous  quid 
of  tobacco  into  the  other  cheek,  and  re- 
plied only  by  a  dissatisfied  growl. 

"I'm  fairly  choking  for  breath,"  went 
on  Gus,  leaning  over  the  bulwarks  in  a 
vain  endeavor  to  catch  a  mouthful  of 
air;  "I  wish  to  heaven  a  breeze  would 
spring  up." 

"Humph!"  grunted  the  old  tar,  as  he 
dlscharfe-ed  an  enormous  stream  of  to- 
bacco juice  over  the  aide,  "you'll  have 
your  wish  before  you  sleep,  youngster, 
or  I'rn  nr.?staken." 

"Well,  I  confess  you're  a  better  judge 
of  the  weather  than  I  am,  if  you  can  see 
any  sign  of  a  breeze,"  said  Gus.  "By 
the  look  of  things  at  present,  I  should 
conclude  we  might  'ie  sweltering  here 
[or  a  month  of  Sundays." 
v'Tve  been  on  the  ocean,  man  and  boy, 


for  thirty  odd  years,  sir,  and  oughi 
to  know  something  of  weather  signs.  If 
It  doesn't  blow  great  guns  before  the 
sun  sets  to-night,  then  you  may  call 
old  Jack  a  good-for-nothing  lubl)er  — 
that's  all." 

"I  vow  I  hope  it  may.  This  dog-trot 
late  of  going  is  enough  to  provoke  a 
Quaker  to  kick  his  grandmother.  A 
stiff  breeze  will  give  us  new  life,  and  set 
things  all   right  again."  said  Gus. 

"Maybe  so,"  said  the  old  salt,  rather 
doubtlngly;  "but.  If  I'm  not  mistaken, 
you'll  wish  yourself  safe  on  land  before 
you  see  the  sun  rise  again." 

"Faith!  1  wish  I  was  there  now."  said 
Gus,  with  a  yawn,  "I  never  was  born  for 
a  sailor,  and  never  were  the  children  of 
Israel  more  tired  of  their  quarters  In 
the  desert  than  I  am  of  this  rascally 
old  ark.  Look  out  for  your  storm.  Jack: 
and  If  you  see  it  coming  just  let  me 
know." 

And  Gus  seated  himself  on  the  quarter 
rail,  and  leisurely  lit  a  cigar. 

An  hour  or  two  passed  away  in  silence. 
The  sun  was  setting,  but  the  heat  was 
still  intense.  Fred  lay  gazing  idly  Into 
the  ship's  wake.  Gus  puffed  away,  and 
thought  of  Nell;  but  the  heat  had  ren- 
dered both  too  languid  to  talk.  Sud- 
denly a  hand  was  laid  on  his  arm;  and, 
looking  up,  Gus  beheld  old  Jack. 

"Look  now,  sir,"  said  the  old  man, 
pointing  to  the  sky.  Absorbed  in  his 
own  reflections,  the  young  man  had  to- 
tally forgotten  the  prediction  of  the  old 
sailor.  As  he  glanced  up  at  the  sky,  he 
involuntarily  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
surprise  at  the  sight  which  met  his  eye. 

As  far  as  he  could  see,  in  every  di- 
rection, a  huge  black  pall  of  intense 
darkness  covered  the  face  of  the  heav- 
ens. A  lurid,  crimson  line  of  fire  in 
the  w^est  showed  where  the  sun  had 
sunk  below  the  horizon,  and  was  re- 
flected like  a  thin  stream  of  blood  on 
the  sea.  Faint  puffs  of  wind,  from  what 
quarter  of  the  heavens  no  man  could 
tell,  at  intervals  sighed  through  the  rig- 
ging, only  to  be  followed  by  an  ominous 
calm,  more  profound  than  before.  The 
ship  lay  rolling  heavily  on  the  black, 
glassy  billows,  rising  and  falling  like  a 
dull,  heavy  log.  A  gloom  like  that  of 
midnight  was  gathering  over  sea  and 
sky — the  dismal,  ominous  silence  invol- 
untarily made  the  boldest  catch  his 
breath  quick  and  short,  and  filled  each 
heart  with  a  nameless  awe,  as  they 
stood  in  silent  expectation  of  what  was 
to  follow  this  dead  calm  of  nature,  as 
she  paused  to  take  breath  before  the 
hurricane  of  her  wrath  burst  in  its  full 
force. 

At  this  moment  the  clear,  commanding 
voice  of  Captain  Harden  was  heard  giv- 
ing orders  to  his  men  to  reef  the  sails. 

"We'll  have  a  rousing  gale  to-night," 
said  he,  a  few  moments  afterward,   "or 


r/i/i'    liEHMl'l    (tF    THE    CUt'FH. 


and  ouKlii 
i<!r  HiKHB.  ir 
^  before  th«- 
)u  may  call 
ngr     lubber 

'bJs   dog-trot 

•    provoke    a 

Imother.      a 

Ufe,  and  set 

GU8. 

«alt.    rather 

't    miBtaken, 

land   before 

now."  Baid 
vas  born  foi 

children  of 
quarters    In 
lis   rascallv 
torm.  Jack; 
ust    let    me 

the  quarter 

f  In  silence. 
e  heat  was 
K  Idly  Into 

away,  and 
t  had  ren- 
alk.      Sud- 

arm;  and. 
lek. 

old  man. 
Ijed  In  his 
in  had  to- 

of  the  old 
he  sky,  he 
imation  of 
et  his  eye. 

every  di- 
of  intense 
the  heav- 
of    fire    in 

sun  had 
was  re- 
blood  on 
rom  what 
lan  could 
ti  the  rig- 
i  ominous 
ore.  The 
he  black. 
ng  like  a 
a   that   of 

sea  and 
ce  invol- 
atch  his 
lied   each 

as  they 
'hat  was 
Lture,  as 
fore  the 
I  its  full 

manding: 
ard  g:iv- 
i  sails, 
-night," 
ard.   "or 


111)    muHtaken.     1    knew    this   dead   calm 

•  lidn't  come  for  nothing.  Ha!  here  it  is! 
Down,  men,  down,  and  hold  fast  for 
your  lives!     The  squall  Is  upon  us!" 

Even  as  he  s^oke  the  bluck  pall  that 
hung  over  the  sky  seemed  visibly  lifted 
up,  and  a  ghaHtly,  whitish  light  lit  up 
the  heaving  sea.  A  vivid  flash  of  light- 
ning blazed  in  the  sky,  followed  by  a 
crash  of  thunder  that  seemed  to  rend 
the  very  heavens  in  twain,  accompan- 
ied by  a  flood  ot  rain  and  a  terrific  gale 
.if  wind— and  the  hurricane  bur  upon 
ihem  with  tremendous  force.  For  a  mo- 
ment the  good  ship  tottered  and  quiv- 
led  in  every  timber,  as  If  trembling  be- 
fore her  gigantic  foe;  then  plunging 
suddenly  downward  like  a  maddened 
steed,  she  flew  before  the  hurricane  with 
the  speed  of  the  wind.  On,  on,  on,  with 
the  spray  dashing  over  the  decks,  and 
drenching  to  the  skin  the  affrighted 
( rew,  she  sped  like  a  flash.  The 
lightning  blazed  as  though  the  whole 
heavens  were  one  /ast  sheet  of 
Mame;  the  thunder  crashed  peal  upon 
ijeal,  as  though  the  earth  were  rending 
asunder;  the  rain  fell  in  vast  floods  of 
water;  the  wind  shrieked  and  howled 
like  a  demon  with  Impotent  fury,  and 
the    bark  plunged    madly    on,    quivering, 

•  reaklng,  groaning  and  straining  in  ev- 
ry  timber.     The  huge  billows  rose  black 

and  terrific,  yawning  as  though  to  en- 
gulf them,  the  white  foam  gleaming  dis- 
mal and  ghastly  In  the  spectral  dark- 
ness, now  and  then  shown  In  their  ap- 
palling hugeness  by  the  blinding  glare 
of,  the  lightning.  The  whole  scene  was 
inexpressibly  grand  and  terrific — the 
most  cowardly  soul  lost  all  sense  of  fear 
in  the  awful  sublimity,  the  unspeakable 
grandeur  of  the  elemental  uproar. 

Fortunately,  the  hurricane  was  not  one 
of  long  duration.  Ere  an  hour  had 
passed  the  violence  of  the  squall  had 
greatly  abated,  but  not  before  it  had 
nearly  dismantled   the  ship. 

Fred  Stanley  stood  clinging  to  a  rope, 
gazing  at  the  troubled  sea  and  sky  with 
a  feeling  of  unspeakable  awe  that  swal- 
lowed up  every  other  feeling.  His  hat 
had  blown  off;  his  long,  dark  locks 
streamed  wildly  in  the  gale— his  eyes 
were  fixed,  as  if  fascinated,  on  the  gi- 
gantic billows,  rising  like  huge  moun- 
tains  as  if  to.  over  whelm   them. 

His  meditations  were  suddenly  cut 
short  by  a  hand  being  laid  on  his  shoul- 
der. With  a  start,  he  looked  up,  and 
beheld  by  the  light  of  the  binnacle-lamp 
the  pale  features  of  Gus  Elliott. 

"A  wild  night,  my  friend,"  said  the 
youth;  and  although  he  spoke  loudly,  his 
voice  sounded  almost  like  a  whisper 
amid  the  roar  of  wind  and  sea. 

"A  fearful  storm,  truly,"   v/as  the  re- 
ply,   as    il*red's    eyes     strove    to     pierce 
through  the  thick  darkness. 
"Would    to    heaven    it    were    morning! 


This  intense  darkness  is  appalling.  Could 
we  see  our  danger  I  would  not  care,  hut 
In  this  fearful  gloom  the  imagination  pic- 
tures a  thousand  horrors,  far  worse  than 
the    nj(  St    dreadful    reality." 

"It  can  be  scarcely  midnight  yet,"  said 
Gus;  "I  see  the  clouds  are  breaking  away 
In  that  d'.rei(i<.n.  It  will  be  light  enough 
presently." 

"Well,  messmate,  have  my  words  c(»me 
true?"  said  a  voice  at  Gus'  elbow,  and. 
turning,  both   beheld  old  Jack. 

"That  they  have,"  replied  Gus;  "and 
though  I  must  ghe  you  credit  for  being 
a  true  prophet,  upon  my  honor  I  wish  to 
hear  no  more  such  predictions  while  £ 
am  on  board   the   Mermaid." 

"That  won't  be  long,  sir,  or  I'm  mis- 
taken."   replied  Jack,   gloomily. 

"What!  Croaking  again '^  I  thought 
all  danger  was  past."  said  the  youth. 

Jack  shook  his  liead  despondlngly. 

"Come,  niy  honest  son  of  Neptune,  out 
with  it.     What's  in  the  wind,  now'.'" 

At  this  moment  one  of  the  crew  shout- 
ed, in  a  voice  of  horror: 

"The  ship  has  sprung  a  leak!  There's 
five  feet  of  water  In  the  hold." 

"All  hands  to  the  pumps!"  called  the 
calm,  trumpet-like  tones  of  the  captain. 

The  eyes  of  Gus  and  the  old  sailor  met. 

"I  knew  how  it  would  be,"  said  the 
old  tar,  shaking  his  head  mournfully,  "I 
had  a  presentiment  last  night  that  not 
a  soul  on  board  the  Mermaid  would  live 
to  see  the  sun  rise  again." 

As  he  spoke  he  hurried  forward;  but 
not  until  Gus  had  fairly  started  back 
at  sight  of  the  ghastly  look  on  his  face, 
as  it  was  revealed  by  the  dim  light  of 
the  binnacle-lamp.  The  youth  turned 
uneasily  away,  and  encountered  the 
dark,  earnest  eyes  of  his  friend. 

"Pooh!  nonsnse!  what  an  old  prophet 
of  evil  that  is,"  said  Gus,  striving  to 
shake  off  the  feeling  for  which  he  could 
not  account;  "a  raven  could  not  croak 
more  dismally  than  he." 

"And  yet  I  fear  he  is  right,"  said 
Fred.  "We  are  far  from  being  out  of 
danger.  How  this  old  dismantled  hulk 
la  plunging  and  staggering.  Hark!  what 
is  that?" 

It  was  the  voice  of  one  of  the  men 
who  had  been  sent  below,  and  who  now 
came  to  announce  that  the  water  was 
rapidly  rising. 

The  crew  redoubled  their  efforts.  Fred 
and  Gus  sprang  to  their  aid  and  worked 
for  their  lives.  But  all  was  in  vain;  in 
apite  of  all  their  exertions,  the  hold  was 
filling  fast. 

Suddenly  a  voice  full  of  horror  was 
heard   shouting: 

"The  ship  is  sinking!" 

In  an  instant  every  arm  dropped  as  if 
palsied,  and  every  face  blanched  to  the 
hue   of   death,    and    the    silence    of   the     «♦** 
grave  reigned.    Then  the  spell  was  brokrX    ,-•► 


%-t' 


/' 


,^V' 


TUK    tltUiMlT    OF    Tim    CLIFfH. 


en,  and  with  a  wild  ery  they  K>rang  to- 
;\VQrd  tlie  tiuats.  , 

"Are  you  mad,  men?"  chout«»d  Captain 
•  Harden,  a«  the  crew  rui^hed  i>ttll-niell  to 
the  Bide  of  the   vesBel, 

Hut  hl8  wordH  were  in  vain;  the  fright- 
ened wretches  heard  not,  heeded  not. 
Maddened  by  their  seiflBh  fears,  they 
sprang  into  the  boatH,  pushing  one  an- 
other fiercely  aalde  in  their  cowardly 
haRte. 

"Thope  crowded  boatB  will  never  live 
In  this  Burf!"  exclaimed  Fred,  in  a  vol(;e 
that  Intenfle  excitement  had  almost  sunk 
to  a  whisper. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  the  nearest  boat 
was  lifted  on  the  giant  crest  of  a  mon- 
ster wave.  For  a  moment  it  paused  on 
Its  fearful  height,  quivering  like  a  reed; 
"the  next,  a  wild  shriek  arose  from  the 
doomed  crew  and  every  soul  was  strug- 
gling in  the  hissing  seas.  The  next  mo- 
ment to  their  inexpressible  horror  the 
other  boat  shared  the  same  fate!  One 
wild,  agonized  shriek  of  mortal  horror 
arose  high  above  the  storm,  and  then 
all  grew  still.  Engulfed  beneath  the 
hissing  billows,  they  had  sunk  to  rise 
no  more. 

Of  all  the  numerous  crew  of  the  good 
Fhip  Mermaid,  those  three  stood  alone 
now.  Above,  frowned  the  angry  sky, 
black  and  ominous;  beneath,  raged  the 
angrier  ocean— the  tops  of  the  white  bil- 
lows gleaming  like  snow  against  the 
murky  background.  Around,  was  spread 
the  dense,  dark  pall  of  night— an  aim  <st 
itppenetrable  wall  of  thick  blackness. 
Boats  and  crew  were  alike  gone.  Alone 
they  stood  on  the  wide  sea,  In  a  sinking 
ship,  with  death  staring  them  In  every 
direction  in  the  face. 

'  The  ominous  woi'ds  of  the  old  sailor 
rushed  to  the  mind  of  Gus:  "Not  a  soul 
on  board  the  mermaid  would  live  to  see 
the  sun  rise  again!" 

How  true  his  words  seemed  likely  to 
prove! 

'  "We  will  soon  follow  them,"  said  Gus, 
turning  to  the  captain. 

"God  Uvoth!"  was  the  solemn  answer. 
'He  holdeth  the  ocean  in  the  hollow  of 
His  hand.     Trust  in  Him!" 


CHAPTER  III.  :       ; 

SAVED. 

"Rise!  for  the  day  is  breaking, 
.  Though  the  dull  night  be  long! 

Rise!  God  is  not  forsaking 
Thy  heart— be  strong— be  strong." 

— C.   H.  J. 

;  For  a  few  moments  the  survivors  of 
the  wreck  stood  silent.  With  death  star- 
ing them  in  the  tace,  men  are  not  in- 
clined to  be  loquaqious.  Each  one,  in- 
iwardly  commended  his  soul  to  his 
'Maker,  and  strove  .to  nerve  himself  to 
.niieet  his  doom  fearlessly. 


"And  can  we  not  even  make  an  effort 
to  save  our  Uvea?"  said  Fred,  at  last. 
"Must  we  die  without  one  attempt  to 
escape  the  doom  which  threatens  us?" 

"While  there  is  life  there  is  hope,"  said 
the  captain.  "Ha!"  he  exclaimed,  as 
If  suddenly  struck  by  a  new  thought, 
"here  arc  plenty  of  loose  spars  and 
ropes;   why  not  make  a  raft?" 

"This  old  hulk  will  go  to  the  bottom 
before  It  Is  half  constructed,"  said  Gus. 

"It  is  worth  a  trial,  however,"  said 
his  friend,  springing  up  with  new  hope. 
"Let  us  not  lose  time.  Every  second  is 
precious." 

Men  working  for  their  lives  need  lit- 
tle urging.  In  less  than  an  hour  a  sufll- 
cient  number  of  spars  were  lashed  to- 
gether to  make  a  tolerably  safe  raft; 

Captain  Harden  went  below  to  dis- 
cover how  much  longer  they  might  stay 
on  the  wreck  in  safety. 

Turning  to  his  friend,  Gus  said,  as  he 
touched  the  raft   with   hlG   foot: 

"A  desperate  venture,  Fred,  to  titjst 
our  lives  on  these  few  crazy  planks,  on 
the  wide  Atlantic.  I  fear,  my  dear 
friend,  the  patriot  army  of  Washington 
will  be  deprived  of  two  recruits  this 
time." 

"Desperate,  certainly,"  said  Fred, 
thoughtfully,  "yet  I  feel  a  sort  of  pre- 
sentiment that  our  end  Is  not  so  near." 

"Would  I  could  think  so,  too,"  said 
Gus,  striving  to  discover  some  sign  of 
hope  in  the  threatening  scene  around. 
"I  cannot  but  recall  the  ominous  words 
of  that  old  sailor.  They  are  continually 
recurring  to  my  mind." 

"To  the  raft!  To  the  raft,  for  our 
lives!"  shouted  Captain  Harden,  as  he 
rushed  on  deck,  "the  ship  is  sinking!" 

Even  as  he  spoke,  she  began  plunging 
to  and  fro  like  a  frightened  steed. 

In  a  moment  they  had  flung  their  raft 
over  the  side,  and  had  leaped  from  the 
deck. 

They  were  not  a  moment  too  soon. 
The  doomed  ship,  after  a  few  mad  strug- 
gles, began  rapidly  to  settle  In  the  water. 
The  waves  seemed  lashed  into  fury,  and 
the  giant  crest  of  each  huge  billow 
swept  the  dismantled  deck.  Suddenly 
she  was  whirled  round  and  round  by 
some  impetuous  force,  then,  rising  al- 
most perpendicularly,  she  plunged  down, 
??tern  foremost.  In  the  enormous  whirl- 
pool thus  formed,  they  almost  imag- 
ined they  could  see  the  bottom,  so  great 
was  it.s  force,  that  although  they  were 
at  some  distance,  they  held  their  breath 
for  a  moment  in  involuntary  terror  as 
they  were  rapidly  swept  toward  the  hiss- 
ing vortex.  But  the  waves  again  closed 
over  her,  and  every  sign  of  life  van- 
ished from  the  horizon. 

"There  perished  as  noble  a  bark  as 
ever  braved  the  blue  Atlantic!"  said 
Captain  Harden,  dashing  the  spray 
from  his  eyes. 


.\ 


THK    HtJHMir    OF    THt)    VLlt't'H. 


^•7 


There  wan  no  ifply.  for  hln  cdnipan- 
loiis  were  loHt  In  thought.  How  Intic- 
i.ifHBlbly  dreary  and  dcHolate  was  all 
iiound.'  Alone  on  the  wide  ocean,  on  a 
frail  raft,  that  thieiittMied  earh  inoin«'nt 
til  go  to  pteceH  under  them  l»y  the  vlo- 
l.-nee  of  the  waves.  The  cold  alpray, 
IrenehlnR  them  to  the  Bkin,  l)enunihed 
th.-m  with  cold:  a  dull  lethargy  was 
<  reejilng  over  them  when  Captain  Har- 
den, who  noticed  with  alarm  how  frail 
I  lie  raft  was,  Huddenly  aald: 

Let  UB  try  to  make  this  raft  of  ours 
1  little  tighter.  It  threatetm  now  to  go 
lo  nieces  every  moment.  Work  will 
k..ep  US  warm,  too;  this  cold  spray  Is 
.  iiuUKl'.   to   freeze  a    man." 

The  exertion  produced  the  desired  ef- 
i,(  t  and  they  soon  had  the  pleasure  of 
tliiding  thfir  lloat  much  more  secure 
ihan  before.  How  long  the  hours  seemed 
ihat  must  Intervene  until  morning!  As 
ilie  night  slowly  wore  on,  the  storm 
steined  to  die  away,  the  waves  subsid- 
■d  and  the  wind  sank  to  a  light  breeze. 
Tlie  clouds  of  night  sullenly  rolled  away 
hefore  the  white  wand  of  morning.  Far 
in  the  east,  the  sky  and  sea  were  blush- 
ing scarlet  before  the  coming  of  the 
sun.  Up  he  rose  in  fiery  radiance,  glow- 
ing and  golden,  in  a  canopy  of  purple, 
(  rimson  and  blue.  Not  a  cloud  obscured 
the  clear  blue  vault  of  heaven,  thai,  a 
few  hours  before  had  shot  forth  forked 
lightning  and  deafening  peals  of  thun- 
der. Their  frail  raft  rose  and  fell  gaily 
I'n  the  sparkling  waves,  that  the  night 
i.K^fore  had  loomed  up  so  dark  and  fright- 
lul.  Calm  and  peaceful  the  blue  sea 
looked,  as  though  hundreds  of  brave 
hearts,  that  fearful  night,  had  not  per* 
ished   forever  beneath. 

•'What  a  change  a  few  hours  has 
made!"  said  Fred,  as  the  light,  cool 
breeze  lifted  gently  the  dark  hair  off  his 
feverish  brow;  "iast  night,  all  was  wild 
and  dark,  and  tempestuous;  this  morn- 
ing, everything  breathes  peace  and 
iieautv.  Sunrise  on  the  ocean!  was  there 
ever  anything  more  glorious?" 

"A  sailor's  luck,  Mr.  Stanley,"  said 
rnptain  Harden,  shaking  the  spray  from 
his  hair:  "a  short  time  ago  we  were 
shivering  with  the  cold,  and  in  two  hours 
hence  we  will  be  sweltering  in  the  rays 
of  a  sun  hot  enough  to  roast  an  Afri- 
can.'' 

"Do  you  think  there  is  any  chance  of 
our  being  picked  up  before  night,  cap- 
tain?" inquired  Gus. 

"Can't  say.  sir.  I  trust  so,  however. 
There  are  always  ships  cruising  about 
in  these  latitudes." 

The  day  wore  on:  and,  as  the  sun  ap- 
proached the  meridian,  the  heat  grew 
almost  intolerable.  Without  shelter  to 
ward  off  the  burning  rays  of  an  almost 
tropical  sun.  they  sank  down  overpov*'- 
f^red  and  utterly  exhausted.  Thirst,  too. 
began    to   torment    them,    and    the    con- 


friends    to 
bodily   lnt<i 


Hclousness  that  they  wer^'  without  means 
to  allay  It  added  to  their  suffering.  T<io 
languid  even  to  conveitie.  they  sat  in 
dreary  silence,  their  eyes  Hxed  on  the 
boundless  exi)anHe  of  sky   and  oc-ean. 

Slowly  the  sun  began  to  sink  in  tlie 
west,  and  the  conviction  timt  they  must 
pass  another  night  where  they  were. 
added  anything  but  comfort  to  their  sit- 
uation 

Wiien  the  glorious  suiiight  of  the  fol- 
lowing morning  fell  on  them.  It  f«)und 
them  parched  with  thirst,  and  lying  ut- 
terly exhausted  on  the  mlseiable  fWmt, 
Fred  and  Caotaln  Harden  still  bore  up; 
but  the  fiery  flush  on  tlie  cheek  ot  (Iuh. 
and  the  wild  light  In  his  eye,  showed 
the  fever  that   was  burning  witliin. 

Ah  the  morning  passed,  and  noon  ai»- 
jtroached.  he  grew  delirious.  He  reved 
wildly,  and  more  than  once  It  rtjquired 
the  united  strength  of  his 
prevent  him  from  plunging 
the   deep. 

"Would  to  Heaven  aid  would  come!" 
said  Captain  Harden,  with  deep  anx- 
iety, as  his  eye  fell  on  the  delirious 
youth.  "Poor  boy!  I  do  not  wonder  he 
has  sunk  beneath  this  tritti.  He  is  little 
inured  to  the  hardships  and  privations 
of  a  sailor's  life." 

"Wha;  is  that?"  said  Fred,  who  had 
an  eye  like  a  hawk;  "there  is  a  vessel 
healing  down  directly  toward  us.  Look! 
Look!" 

"By  heev(  n,  yes!"  exclaimed  the  cap- 
tain; "let  us  display  our  flag.  Ha!  they 
see  us  I     There  goes  their  signal!" 

"Saved.  Gus!  Saved,  my  dear  fellow!" 
exclaimed  Fred,  seizing  his  hand,  hot 
and   burning,   in   both   his. 

"Saved!  Saved!  I  knew  we  would  be! 
Hurrah!"  he  shouted,  with  wild  inco- 
herence, as  he  endeavored  to  spring  to 
his  feet— but,  weak  and  exhausted,  he 
fell  back  in  the  arms  of  his  friend. 

The  vessel  proved  to  be  an  Americf  vi 
privateer.  In  half  an  hour  the  friend.^ 
were  on  board,  where  every  kindness 
that  could  be  required  was  generously 
bestowed  upon  them;  and  poor  Gus  was 
resigned  to  the  care  of  an  experienced 
surgeon— who,  to  the  great  joy  of  Fred, 
affirmed  that  in  a  few  days  he  would  be 
out    of   danger. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE    BtTRNINO    SHIP. 

"Great  God!  the  sights  that  I  have  seen 
When  far  upon  the  main. 
I'd  rather  that  my  death  had  been 
Than  see  those  sights  again." 

— Landon. 

"Yoi'Rs     was    a    narrow     escape,    Mr.i 
Stanley."    said    Captain    Dale,    the   com-., 
mander    of    the    privateer,    as,    about    a. 
week  after  their  deliverance,  Fred  mad? 
his  appearance  on  deck.  ,« 

Gus    was    there,    too,    looking    rather    r 

r'i- 


8 


THE   ^EJiMTT   OF   TUB   VLIFt'S. 


pale,  but  perfectly  restored  both  to 
health  and  spirrts.  ':      ,    ^t.     -u 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Fred;  "and,  thotrgh 
I  have  beeh  as  near  death  in  t»any 
shapes  before,  I  never  felt  it  so  horrible 
as  when,  wild  with  thirst,  I  stood  ex- 
pecting it  on  thAt  frail  raft  on  the  broad 

"And  your  friend,"  said  the  captain, 
smiling  "was  in  still  worse  condition 
when    we     providentially    came     across 

■  "figad!"  exclaimed  Gus.  "it  came  near 
doing  for  me.  I'll  never  undertake  to 
sail  across  the  Atlantic  on  a  raft  agam, 
if  I  can  help  it;  at  least,  not  without  a 
beaker  of  fresh  water  on  board/' 

"What  is  your  destination  now,  cap- 
tain?" inquired  Fied. 

"Boston;  but  I  mean  to  capture,  it 
possible,  a  few  Britishers  first,  to  makei 
time  pass  pleasantly."        ,      „     ^„      . 

"Boston?  We're  in  luck,  Fred,  '  obn 
served  Gus.  "So,"  he  added  to  the  cap- 
tain "you  sometimes  have  a  skirmish 
v/ith  the  British,  do  you?"  .      ,     ^ 

"Yes,"  replied  Dale;  "it's  only  last 
wt'ek  I  sent  a  sloop-of-war  to  Davy 
Jones;  and,  with  the  help  of  the  Lord, 
ah«^  that  long  Tom  there,  I  trust  speed- 
ily to  send  some  more  of  their  brethren 
to   look   after   them." 

"Sail  ho!"  called  tlie  shrill  tones  of 
the  lookout  at  this  moment; 

"Where     away?"     demanded    Captain 
Dale,  as  he  seized  a  glass,   and   sprang 
into  the  rigging. 
'  "Due  east,  sir." 

•'•"And  an  Englishman,  by  Jupiter!"  ex- 
claimed the  captain,  as  he  again  leaped 
on  the  deck.  "There's  something  wrong 
on  board  of  her,  too,"  he  continued,  "for 
the  crew  are  running  wildly  about  the 
deck,  sometimes  rushing  in  a  oody  be- 
low, and  again  reappearing.  Can  the 
crew  have  mutinied?" 

Again  he  gazed  long  and  steadfastly 
tit  the  vessel. 

"Heavens!"   he  exclaimed,   "the  ship's 
on  fire." 
r"By  Jove,  so  it  is,"  said  Fred;  and,  even 
as  he  spoke,  a  sudden  jet  of  flame  shot 
up  the  hatchway  of  the  ship. 

"And  there  goes  a  signal  of  distress," 
shouted  Gus,  as  a  white  pennant  sud- 
denly streamed  out  in  the  breeze  from 
the  masthead. 

"See  how  the  poor  wretches  are  crowd- 
ing together,"  exclaimed  the  captain; 
"we  must  not  let  them  perish  before  our 
eyes.  Who  will  volunteer  to  go  to  the 
rescue?" 

As  if  by  one  impulse,  men  and  officers 
all  sprang  forward  to  offer -their  ser- 
vices. ^■■ 
.  "No,  no,"  said  Captain  Dale,  gpod- 
hnmoredly,  "I  cannot  let  you  all  go. 
Ikefe,  Mr.  Stewart,"  addressing  his  first 
lieutenant,  "you  will  take  conima.nd  of 
one   boat,   and— ah!    Mr.   Stanley,   I   see 


by  your  eager  look  how  ahxibtid^  you 
are  t«)  lend  assistance.  Well,  ybu  can 
take -charge  of  the  other  bpat;  and,"  he 
added,  lowering  his  voice,  "look  out  for 
the  magazine.  Now,  be  off, .  t^nd  God 
speed  you." 

"Ay,  ay,  sir,"  came  cheerily  from  a 
score  of  lips,  as  the  hardy  seamen  bem 
to  their  oars. 

"Give  way,  my  lads!"  cried  Fred,  as 
he  sprang  into  the  stem-sheets  and 
waved  his  cap  in  the  a4r. 

The  men  bent  to  their  oars  with  a,  will, 
and  the  boat. cut  like  a  sea-gull  through 
the  waters.  Fred  still  stood  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  burning  ship— his  hand- 
some face  all  aglow  with  excitement. 

The  scene  was  inexpressibly  grand  and 
terrific.  The  flanries  were  now  bursting 
out  from  every  part  of  the  ship;  while 
a  dark,  dense  cloud  of  sulphurous  smoke 
clouded  the  blue  sky  above.  The  fiery 
monster  ra*/  up  the  shrouds  and  rigging, 
twining  its  derce  tongue  around ,  the 
masts;  while  occasionally  the  siiilen 
booming  of  a  gun  would  float  over  the 
waters,  as  her  armament,  heated  by  the 
flames,  went  off.  The  affrighted  crew 
were  huddled  together — by  their  frantic 
gestures  and  wild  signs  striving  to 
urge  the  boats  still  faster  on,  as  they 
beheld  the  flames  rapidly  approaching 
the  spot  where  they  stood. 

"Give  way,  my  men!  give  way!  Will 
you  see  them  perish  miserably  before 
your  eyes?"  shouted  Fred,  his  dark  eyes 
blazing  with  excitement  as  he  beheld 
the  fiery-tongued  monster  almost  within 
a  few  feet  of  the  unhappy  wretches, 
whose  shrieks  of  terror  came  piercingly 
to  their  ears. 

The  sailors  bent  their  brawny  arms,  to 
the  task,  until,  in  less  than  ten  minutes 
more,  they  were  within  a  few  yardS;  of 
the  burning  ship. 

"Leap  into  the  water  and  we  will  p|ck 
you  up!"  shouted  Fred^  fearing  lei^f,;  If 
they  approached  too  near,  the  boftts 
might  swamp  from  the  numbers  crowd- 
ing in.  . 

Without  a  moment's  hesitatioQ,.  ,^he 
command  was  obeyed;  and  the  crews  of 
both  boats  were  soon  busily  enri pipy ed  In 
rescuing.  ,  V     ,' 

"Is  that  all?"  asked  Fre<^,  as,-  the  last 
were  picked  up.  ,   ..  ' ..-, 

"No,  sir;  it's  not  all!"  said  a  fcoy— a 
mere  lad  of  fourteen — springing  from  his 
seat,  "There's  a  lady  aboard  yet;  8|he 
is  in  the  cabin  and  we,  fprgot  her."   .'  .■ 

"Great  heaven ! "  exdainied  Fred ; 
quickly  turning  to  his  ay/n  men,  he  Siaid: 

"My  brave  lads»  I  cannot  leave  a  wo- 
man to  perish  in  that  biirnJng, ship.  I 
am  going  on  board  to  rescue  her.  "ton 
will,  in  the  me^an  tlnae,  keep  at  some  dis- 
tance .  off,  arid  when  t  appear  on  deck, 
return  for  me.  .Shpuld  you  not  e,ee  me 
again'!  (he  paused,  fox- .a^riioaient)  ",you 
win  return  to  ,thejp|rivat;eer  a^^  t«iH  JOip- 


THE   HBMMIT-  OF   TffE    CUFFS, 


as.  the  last 


tain  Dale  I  have  striven  to  do  my  duty. 
That  will  do  Stand  off,  and  wait  for 
me."' 

He  caught  a  rope  that  hung  over  the 
vess  I's  side,  and  sprang  to  the  burn- 
ing deck. 

To  his  inexpressible  joy  he  saw  that 
the  flames  had  liot  yet  reached  the 
eabin.  He  dashed  down  ihe  stairs,  and 
paused  for  a  moment  to  blance  around. 

The  walls  were  a  dark,  polished  oak, 
the  floor  covered  with  a  rleh  Turkey  car- 
pet, whose  brilliant,  hues  were  bright  as 
the  gorgeous  plumage  of  a  humming- 
bird. The  chairs  and  lounges,  profusely 
scattered  around,  were  of  dark,  carved 
wood— old  and  quainc  in  appearance, 
and  cushioned  with  dark  blue  velvet.  A 
guitar  lay  in  a  corner,  and  carelessly 
scattered  by  it  were  seveial  sheets  of 
music.  A  bookcase,  filled  with  a  choice 
selection  of  books,  stood  in  one  corner, 
-CHid,  lying  half  open  on  the  table,  as  if 
ft  had  Just  been  dropped,  was  a  small, 
elegantly,  bound  volume  of  Milton,  By 
it  lay  a  tiny  gold  locket,  ccataining  a 
miniature.  Not  doubting  that  this  be- 
longed to  the  occupant  of  the  cabin, 
Fred  snatched  it  up,  thinking  she  might 
value  it,  and  turned  to  look  for  its 
owner. 

The  door  of  an  adjoining  stateroom 
was  half  open.  It  was  no  time  for  idle 
ceremony.  Without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation he  dashed  It  open  and  entered. 

A  young  girl,  transcendently  lovely, 
was  kneeling  in  the  middle  of  the  floor. 
Her  snowy  robes  fell  In  spotless  folds 
ground  her  exquisite  form;  the  long, 
silken  tresses  fell  like  a  shower  of  rip- 
pling isunbeams  over  her  pearly  shoiil- 
c*ers.  Tlje  small  white  hands  wei-e 
clbsped  over  the  stainless  bosom,  that 
rose  and  fell  with  her  soft  breathing. 
J^very  trace  of  color  had  faded  from  that 
fkir  face,  leaving  cheek  and  brow  Aa 
white  as  monumental  marble.  The  large 
bine  eyes,  calm  and  cloudless  as  moun- 
tain lakes,  looked  irom  beneath  the 
£:olden  lashes,  calm  and  serene. 

Stepping  before  her,  he .  said,  hur- 
riedly: 

"Madam,  everything  Is  in  flames 
ar&untS  you!  Come  with  me,  or  you  will 
bejci^t  ' 

,At  the  sound  of  his  voice  she  sprang 
to  her  feet,  and,  with  a  wild  cry  of 
^•Saved!  Saved!"  she  threw  up  both 
snowy  amis,  and  would  have  fallen 
fainting  to  the  floor,  had  he  not  caught 
her  in  his  embrace. 

thatching  a  quilt  from  the  bed,  he 
wrapped  It  tound  her  slight  form  and 
rushed  from  the  cabin.  To  his  unspeak- 
i^bie  horror,  as  he  sprang  with  one  bound 
x^  the  stairway,  he  found  the  whole 
d(»<dlc  hiad  niow  become  one  vast  sheet  of 
naiDe.  There  ,5va^  no,,  time  fo  lose.. 
SpflQaing  like,  a  WQunded  panther,,  he 
cleared  f||e ' debk  wtth  two  bounds,  and] 
leai>M  clean  over  tfie  iiicie  into  the  i^A.] 


A  wild  cheer  arose  from  the  crew  of 
the  boat  at  the  sight.  Propelled  by 
,  strong  arms  and  willing  hearts,  in  a 
mo/nent  It  was  by  his  side  and  in  an- 
other he  stood  among  them,  with  his 
still  insensible  burden  in  hlia  arms.-* 

"Pull,  men!  Pull,  for  the  love  of  Goid!" 
he  shouted,  waving  his  hand  in  thit^  iair. 
"You  work  for  your  lives." 

Like  straws  the  strong  oars  bent  In  the 
brawny  hands  of  the  rowers,  and  like  «in 
arrow  sped  from  a  bow,  the  boat  shot 
out  from  the  burning  ship. 

One  moment  more,  and  it.  would  have 
been  too  late.  With  a  roar  that  seemed 
to  rend  heaven  and  earth,  thie  magazine 
exploded,  and  the  ill-fjEited  ship  v/as 
blown  to  atoms.  Like  a  shower  of  riail, 
the  burning  spars  and  timbers  fell  all 
around  them.  BUt  they  were  almost 
miraculously  saved;  the  boat  escaped 
uninjured,  and  in  ten  minutes  was  en- 
tirely out  of  danger. 

Every  one  drew  a  deep  breath,  and 
from  the  most  callous  and  hardened 
heart  present  went  up  a  prayer.,  of 
thanksgiving  for  their  unexpected  deliv- 
erance from  deaths 

Fred  seated  himself,  and,""throwlng  off 
the  liuilt  in  which  he  bad  wrapped, the 
yourg  girl,  began  to  chafe  her  cold 
ha.itis  and  temples. 

"Had  this  young  lady  no  friends  on 
board,  that  she  was  thus  forgotten?'/,  he 
asked,  turning  to  one  of  the  crew  of  the 
FiUglishman. 

"No,  sir;  not  when  the  vessel  caught 
flre.  She  was  retur^iing  from  England 
with  her  uncle,  and  one  stormy  night, 
about  a  week  ago,  he  was  washed,  over- 
board and  lost.  She  never  came.  up.  to 
the  deck  after  that,  and  in  the  hurry  and 
fright,  when  the  ship  was  found  to;  be 
on  flre,  We  forgot  all  about  her." 

"Is  she  an  American?"  asked  Fred, 
looking,  with  a  feeling  for  which  he 
could  not  account,  on  the  fair  face  and 
graceful  form  lying  so  still  and  lifeless 
In  his  arms. 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  replied  the 
man. 

All  Fred's  efforts  to  restore  her  to  con- 
sciousness were' In  vain.  She  lay.  In  her 
snowy  drapery,  so  still,  that  he  almost 
feared  life  was  extinct.  A  snow-wreath 
was  not  more  white  than  the  cplorless 
face,  off  which  the  bright  hair. fell  over 
the  young  man's  arm,  on  which  the  bead 
reclined.  The  tiny  hands  imprisoned  in 
his  were  cold  and  lifeless  as  marble* 

With  a  feeling  of  intense  joy,  Fred 
sprang  once  more  upon  the  deck  of  the  ^ 
privateer,  and  resigned  th^  fainting  girl 
to  the  hands  of  the  surgeon,  and  then 
hastened  to  exchange  his  wet  clothes 
for  dry  ones.  Gus,  who  had  arrived  in 
the  Other  boat  a  few  momenti»  foefoire, 
li8te:ned  with  envy  and  amazement  to  Ills 
fi4end'fii:stbry;  ■  •/'  ^y-'"''- -,  .■- ■•--^-v  ;/:.;':n?-  ,'- " 
"Well;    luck    Uf   everything-r"    he  seacr.f' 


r- 


i-  f 


10 


THE    HERMIT    Of'  TUK    VUFfli. 


I 


claimed,  with  a  sigh,  when  his  friend 
had  concluded;  "if  every  ship  In  the 
British  navy  were  to  take  fire  I  don't  be- 
lieve I'd  have  the  good  fortune  to  save  a 
single  young  lady  from  a  scorching, 
while  you're  not  well  out,  when  you  re- 
turn with  an  angel  in  your  arms,  wring- 
ing, wet,  and  never  look  any  more  elated 
by  It  than  if  you  were  a  man  of  stone. 
Oh,  Fortune!  Fortune!  thou  fickle  god- 
dess, if  you  would  only  throw  such 
chances  in  my  way  as  Is  th  iwn  in  the 
path  of  this  stony-hearted  cnl*,  believe 
me,  I  would  be  far  from  proving  so  un- 
grateful." 

"A  very  good  speech  for  an  extempore 
one."  observed  Fred,  as  he  coolly  lighted 
a  cigar.  "And,  by  the  way,  here  is  the 
doctor:  I  must  ask  him  how  his  fair 
patient  is." 

"Hech!  mon,  dinna  fash  yerael'  aboot 
her,  the  young  leddy  Is  doin'  verra  weel," 
observed  Sawney;  "an*,  fegs,  ye  ne'er 
seen  sic'n  beautiful  roses  in  a'  yer  life 
as  cam  In  her  cheek  when  I  tauld  her 
aboot  the  canny  chlel  that  plucked  her, 
as  It  were,  a  brand  fra>  the  burnin*. 
Hoot!  Mr.  Stanley,  ne'er  try  to  look  sae 
dignified,  d'ye  think  I  dlnna  see  the  smile 
In  yer  black  e'e?  If  ye're  no  proud  o' 
savin'  the  life  o'  sic  a  handsome  leddy, 
ye  dinna  deserve  to  hear  the  message 
she  has  sent  ye." 

"A  message  for  me!"  exclaimed  Fred, 
with  an  impetuosity  that  brought  a  sud- 
den crimson  to  his  dark  cheek. 

"Aye,  mon!  a  message  to  ye,  dell  a  less. 
And  what  for  wudna  she?  Did  ye  no 
save  her  life?" 

"But  the  message!  the  message!"  ex- 
claimed Fred,  impatiently. 

"Ool  Ay!  the  message!  Jist  sae!  'Tell 
him,'  says  she,  an',  soul  o'  me!  she  look- 
it  sae  bonnle  wi'  her  blue  e'e  and  her 
kowden  locks  as  she  said  it,  that  I'd 
gi'en  a  hunder'  pounds  to  hae  been  ye 
at  the  time." 

"But  the  message!  the  message!  the 
message!"  cried  Fred,  losing  all  patience. 

"And  she  looked  handsome,  did  she?" 
inquired  Gus.  as  he  noticed  the  impa- 
tience of  his  friend. 

"Hech!  ye  may  say  that,  laddie.  De'il 
a  bonnier  lass  ivir  I  clapt  my  ain  twa 
een  on.  An'  a  doot  if  she  winna  load  him 
wi'  compliments  when  he  ca's  to  see  her, 
judgin'  frae  the  message.  I'm  malr  nor 
half  sartln  that"— 

"But,"  shouted  F.rid,  In  his  irritation 
seizing  the  doctor  by  the  shoulder  and 
wheeling  him  round  like  a  top.  "what 
was  the  message,  you  old  son  of  Galen?" 

"Hech,  sirs!  Laird  protect  us!  who 
ivir  heerd  malr  nor  that?"  gasped  the 
little  doctor,  panting  for  breath,  which 
his  extempore  walte  had  nearly  shaken 
out  of  his  body,  "splnnin'  a  respectable 
auld  body  lek  me  roun'  as  if  I  was  a  tap. 
•"Twad   na  be  every  laddie  jyvad  dae  sic 


a  dirty  trick.     Hech!     I'm  fairly  oot  o' 
))reath." 

"It's  excessively  aggrravating,  no 
doubt,"  said  Gus,  soothingly;  "but  you 
must  pardon  my  unhappy  young  friend 
here;  he  is  a  little  flighty  at  times,  but 
perfectly  harmless"— 

Fred  groaned.  .  ;. 

"But  when  very  impatient,"  continued 
Gus,  secretly  enjoying  his  friend's  de- 
spair, he  Is  rather  violent.  Therefore, 
my  dear  doctor,  you  had  better  tell  him 
the  young  lady's  message — when,  I  have 
no  doubt,  these  alarming  symptoms  will 
vanish." 

"Oo  ay!. Just  so!"  said  the  doctor,  re- 
treating a  few  paces  from  Fred,  and 
eyeing  him  as  one  might  a  half -tamed 
tiger,  "she  said  that  ony  time  this  after- 
noon that  wad  be  convenient  she  wad  be 
maist  happy  to  see  ye  in  the  kebbin  be- 
low.   That's  a'." 

And  the  little  doctor  went  off  mutter- 
ing, "Gude  purtect  us!  wha  wad  think 
sic  a  douce  young  laddie  as  that  was  nae 
richt  aboot  the  upper  warks?  Weel. 
weel.  Laird  save  us!" 

"An  interview!"  exclaimed  Gus,  with 
delight;  "by  Jove!  Fred,  you.  are  in  luck. 
I  can  foresee  it  all — private  intervlewr-r 
lady  all  blushes  and  gratitude — gentler 
man  all  admiration  and  compliments- 
see  each  other  every  day  while  on  board 
—grow  as  thick  as  pickpockets  —  moon* 
light  interview — gentleman  grows  tender 
—lady  refers  him  to  papa-^papa  Informs 
him  she's  not  his  daughter  at  all,  but  a 
princess  In  disguise,  with  large  estates 
in  a  land  yet  undiscovered — matrimony 
—champagne,  ice-creams,  wax  lights, 
roses,  pretty  girls'  kisses — bride,  aii  am 
gel  without  wings  —  bridegroom  in  the 
seventh  heaven — whew!  there's  the 
whole  thing  in  a  nutshell.  A  novel  con^ 
densed."  ■       ..  w 

Fred  bit  the  end  of  his  cigar  to  cpn-f 
real  a  smile.  .    ,:! 

"I'd  give  a  trifle  to  know  her  name,"i 
continued  Gus;  "It's  a  wonder  none  of 
the  crew  of  the  vessel  knew  it.  •  Heigho! 
I  suppose  I  must  restrain  my  lmpatienc<e 
until  after  the  interview  she  has  prontT 
ised  you." 

Fred,  though  appearing  outwa,rdly  \n-i 
different,  felt  little  less  anxiety  for  the 
Interview  than  his  friend.  ,{ 

Having  made  himself  very  unnecessa'^ 
rlly  handsome  by  a  moat  careful  toilet, 
he  desired  the  little  doctor  to  Inform  the 
lady  he  was  ready  to  wait  upon  her. 

"Walk  doon!  walk  doon,  laddie."  tuUd 
Galen,  presently  reappearing; '  "and  for 
the  love  o'  heaven!"  he  added,  suddenly, 
remembering  Fred's  conduct  In  the 
morning,  "dlnna  be  ony  way  ylplent. 
Laird  save  me!  what  wad  the  pulr  lassie 
do  If  ye  took  ane  o' :  thaim  tantrums,  in. 
her  presence?"       •  ,,  ,,. 

Fred,  having  pledged  his  word  to  con • 
duct  himself,  \'hile  before  the  iady,.  with. 


THE   BBRMIT   OF   THE   CLIFFS. 


Jl 


Mrly  oot  a' 


due  decorum,  the  doctor  bowed  htm  into 
the  cabin,  whichk  the  captain  had  gener- 
ously given  up  fo  his  fair  captive,  and, 
having  announced  him  ad  being  "the  lad- 
die that  had  ta'en  her  oot  o'  the  burnln' 
ship/'  made  his  best  salute  and  retired. 
The  lady,  who  was  seated  by  the  table, 
arose  as  Fred  entered,  and,  advancing 
toward  him,  extended  her  hand^  The 
youth  imagined  she  looked  even  fairer 
now  than  when  he  had  first  seen  her. 
The  brlight,  golden  tresses  were  pushed 
oft  her  fa-h*  brow  and  gathered  into  a 
burnished  knot  behind,  thus  displaying 
the  exquisite  symmetry  of  the  superb 
little  head.  She  was  «tlll  pale  from  the 
effects  of  her  recent  fright;  but  Fred 
thought  he  had  never  beheld  a  fairer 
face  in  all  his  life. 

"My  preserver!  how  can  I  ever  thank 
you  for  saving  me  from  such  a  fearful 
death?"  said  the  softest,  sweetest  voice 
in  the  world.  And,  raising  the  hand  she 
held  in  hers,  She  bent  her  graceful  head 
and  pressed  it  to  her  lips. 

The  act,  simple  and  natural  as  it  was, 
brought  a  sudden  flush  to  Fred's  face. 

"1  need  no  thanks,  fairest  lady,  for 
performing  a  common  act  of  humanity," 
he  said,  bowing,  "He  would,  indeed,  be 
a  monster  who  would  not  endeavor  to 
rescue  a  fellow-creature  from  death." 

"Oh!  It  was  fearful!"  exclaimed  the 
lady,  "to  stay  there  alOne,  expecting  mo- 
mentary death.  It  seemed  to  me  impos- 
sible I  could  be  saved,  with  everything 
In  flames^  around  me!" 

She  shuddered  it  the  remembrance, 
and  her  face  grew  a  shade  paler, 

"It  seems  wonderful  to  me  how  you 
could  have  been  forgotten  by  all,"  said 
Fred. 

"So  it  seemed  to  me  at  first,  but  not 
now.  I  never  went  on  deck  after  the 
death  of  my  dear  uncle" — she  paused  and 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears — "he  was  lost 
in  a  dreadful  storm,  a  week  before  you 
r'»scued  me,  Alas!  this  seems  doomed  to 
e  a  luckless  voyage," 
"I  fear  you  will  not  l{k3  your  quar- 
ters here,"  said  Fred,  glancing  around 
the  harrow  and  poorly  furnished  cabin, 
"it  is  hardly  in  a  fit  condition  for  the 
reception  of  a  lady." 

"Oh,  if  that  were  all,"  she  said,  with  a 
half  sigh,  "but  I  am  afraid  it  will  be 
such  a  long  time  before  I  can  reach 
home." 

"I.  too,  have  1  nged  for  the  end  of  this 
voyage,"  said  Fred,  "but  now  thie  time 
will  appear  all  too  short." 

She  looked  up  suddenly,  to  find  the 
deep,  dark  eyes  of  the  speaker  fixed  upon 
her  with  a  look  of  profound  admiration. 
For  a  moment  the  golden  lashes  dropped 
over  the  blue  eyes,  and  a  vivid  crimson, 
whether  of  anger  or  embarrassment,  he 
knew  not,  mantled  her  pale  cheeks. 

Her  manner  during  the  remainder  of 
the    interview    was    so    cold    and    con- 


strained that,  he  felt  sure  he  had  offend- 
ed, and,  with  a  feeling,  of  vexathun,  he 
arose  and  took  his  leave, 

Fred's  dreams  that,  night  were  haunt- 
ed by  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  that  one  mo- 
ment smiled  upon  him— the  next  were 
turned  coldly  away.  Once  again,  in  fan- 
cy, he  was  rescuing  their  owner  from 
the  flames  and  bearing  her  off  in  tri- 
umph in. his  arms,  when  he  awoke  to  the 
dull  reality  that  he  was  clasping,  most 
affectionately,  the  pillow! 

As  he  dressed  before  going  on  deck  he 
suddenly  remembered  he  had  neglected 
to  ask  the  young  lady  her  name.  Was 
there  ever  such  stupidity  ?  Then  it  oc- 
curred to  him  that  he  had  a  locket  be- 
longing to  her,  and,  opening  it,  he  dis- 
covered that  it  contained  the  miniature 
of  the  fair  unknown  herself. 

Now,  Mr.  Stanley,  though  by  no  means 
given  in  general  to  retaining  other  peo- 
ple's property,  immediately  experienced 
a  most  felonious  desire  to  keep  the  lock- 
et. Accordingly,  placing  it  as  near  his 
heart  as  was  convenient,  he  hastily  add- 
ed a  few  finishing  touches  to  his  cos- 
tume and  went  on  deck. 

And  when  he  had  reached  it  a  sight 
met  his  eyes  that  transfixed  him  with 
amazement.  For  there,  promenading  the 
deck  and  leaning  most  affectionately  on 
the  arm  of  Gus,  was  the  fair  unknown. 
The  morning  breeze  had  brought  a  deep 
rose  hue  to  the  pearly  cheeks;  her  eyes 
were  bright  with  pleasure,  and  smiles 
were  chasing  the  dimples  over  her  fair, 
sunshine  face.  And  there  was  Gus,  bend- 
ing over  her  in  a  way  for  which  Fred 
could  have  shot  him  without  remorse 
and  calling  up  her  smiles  and  blushes  at 
his  own  magnetic  will. 

No  Wonder  Fred  was  amazed,  angry, 
mortified.  He  had  saved  her  life  almost 
at  the  risk  of  his  own,  and  because  he 
had  uttered  a  few  gallant  words  she  had 
'grown  as  distantly  reserved  and  digni- 
fied as  a  queen  on  her  throne.  And  here 
was  Gus  Elliott,  whom  she  had  never 
seen  before,  now  her  elected  champion, 
and,  to  judge  by  appearances,  something 
more  than  a  friend. 

As  they  passed,  both  looked  up  and 
recognized  him,  she  by  a  formal  bow 
and  Gus  by  a  smile  of  triumph.  With 
the  air  of  an  insulted  prince,  Fred  turned 
aside  and  strolled  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion, with  the  firm  conviction  that  ^ere 
was  nothing  in  the  world  but  ingrrati- 
tude. 

While  he  still  stood  absorbed  in 
gloomy  thought  he  was  suddenly  aroused 
by  a  hearty  slap  on  the  shoulder.  He 
looked  up  haughtily  and  Gus ,  met  the 
full  light  of  his  fiery  eye, 

"Fred!"  he  exclaimed,  without  heeding 

his   evident   anger,    "you're  the   luckiest 

dog    in    creation!      Guess   .whom    you've 

saved?" 

"Whom?"  was  the  eager  inquiry,        r 


L^ 


12 


TUB    HERMIT    Of    THE    GLIFFti. 


"My  cousin  Edith,  the  eldest  daughter 
of  my  uncle.  Major  Perclval!" 

CHAPTER     V. 

THBS    HOME   OF    BDITH. 

"Where  is  the  heart  that  hath  not  bowed 
A  slave,   eternal  love,  to  thee7 
Look  on  the  cold,  the  gay,  the  proud— 
And  is  there  one  among  them  free?" 

— Landon. 

Tt  was  a  dark,  unpleasant  night— 
nearly  a  fortnight  after  the  adventure 
of  the  burning  ship.  The  privateer  was 
still  cruising  about  In  quest  of  "Brit- 
Ishers,"  whom  the  captain  was  particu- 
larly anxious  to  "send  to  thunder!"— as 
he  himself  elegantly  expressed  it.  Dur- 
ing this  time  Fred's  acquaintance  with 
Miss  Perclval  hardly  progressed  as  rap- 
idly as  Gus  had  propht  led  it  would. 
There  was  a  sort  of  embarrassment,  a 
coldness,  a  reserve.  In  her  manner  to- 
ward him  that  offended  his  sensitive 
pride,  and  their  intercourse  now  gener- 
ally consisted  of  a  bow,  when  they  met, 
and  a  formal  "good  day."  Though  she 
spent  the  greater  part  of  each  day  with 
Gus  on  deck,  she  seemed  to  shrink  from 
meeting  Fred,  and  Fred,  seeing  this, 
studiously  avoided  her.  Yet  sometimes, 
suddenly  raising  his  head,  he  would  find 
those  soft  blue  ayes  wandering  wist- 
fully ever  to  where  he  stood,  yet  always 
dropping  before  his,  while  her  rising 
color  and  averted  head  betokened  emo- 
tions she  would  fain  have  concealed. 

Wrapped  in  his  cloak,  with  his  hat 
.drawn  down  over  his  brows,  Fred  paced 
up  and  down  the  deck  in  no  very  amia- 
ble frame  of  mind.  It  was  a  dense, 
gloomy  night.  The  storm  clouds'  were 
drifting,  dark  and  threatening,  over  the 
leaden  sky:  a  chill,  raw  wind  was  blow- 
ing piercingly  cold — sighing,  dirge-like, 
through  the  rigging,  while  the  creaking 
of  the  cordage  seemed  to  chant  back  a 
sort  of  dismal  refrain;  a  thick  rain  was 
falling,  making  everything  wet  and  un- 
comfortable. It  was  indeed  suicidal 
weather,  but  perfectly  congenial  to  the 
thoughts  passing  through  the  mind  of 
the  tall,  cloaked  figure  pacing  so  rest- 
lessly to  and  fro. 

At  times  sounds  of  song  and  peals  of 
laughter  would  come  floating  up  from 
the  cabin,  where  old  Doctor  Kirk,  Cap- 
tain Harden,  Gus  and  Miss  Perclval  were 
assembled.  These  sounds  were  to  Fred's 
feelings  like  "vinegar  upon  nitre,"  and 
his  lip  curled  scornfully  and  bitterly 
whenever  he  passed.  Suddenly  the  men- 
tion of  his  own  name  arrested  his  steps. 
Some  secret  power  held  him,  as  it  were, 
forcibly  to  the  spot,  to  listen. 

"Where's  Stanley?"  Inquired  Captain 
Harden. 

'Keeping  sentry  on   deck,   no   doubt," 
^.^swered  Gus,    "according  to   his  usual 


custom.  I'll  wager  a  guinea  that  quick, 
excited  tread  we  heard  a  moment  ago 
was  Fred  walking  up  and  dov/n." 

"Malster  Stanley's  a  queer  sort  o'  lad," 
observed  the  doctor.  "I  ne'er  cam  across 
ane  .sae  proud  in  a'  my  days.  T'lther 
day  he  was  stannin'  lookin',  sae  dooei 
and  sulky,  by  himsel',  that  I  didna  think 
hem  well,  and  I  recommended  a  doze  o' 
peells.  Well,  instead  o'  thankin'  me,  as 
a  body  ought,  he  glowered  at  me  a  min- 
ute, as  if  he  thought  me  mad.  and 
walked  off  wi'  himsel'  without  sayin'  a 
word.  Hech.  sirs!  dell  a  more  thanks  I 
got!" 

Gus  couldn't  help  laughing,  but  he  ob- 
served : 

"Oh,  you  must  excuse  him,  doctor! 
Fred  has  some  queer  notions;  but  in 
general  he's  a  capital  fellow — brave  as  a 
lion,  but  proud  as  Lucifer." 

"What  Is  your  opinion.  Miss  Perclval, 
of  the  gentleman  now  under  discussion?" 
Inquired  Captain  Harden. 

Oh.  what  would  not  Fred  have  given 
to  hear  the  reply!  Miss  Percival's  low. 
musical  voice  had  hitherto  possessed  an 
unspeakable  charm  for  him;  but  now  he 
would  not  have  objected  had  it  been  as 
loud  as  the  boatswsfin's,  so  that  he  might 
have  heard  the  answer;  but,  though  he 
strained  every  nerve  to  listen,  he  could 
not  catch  her  words. 

"That's  just  like  Edith,*'  observed  Gus. 
"Hasn't  'formed  an  opinion,'  indeed!  As 
if  any  young  lady  could  meet  such  a 
good-looking  fellow  as  Fred  without 
forming  an  opinion  about  him.  He  re- 
minds me  wonderfully  of  the  old  woman 
in  the  song."  And  Gus  drawled,  in  a 
sing-song  tone: 

"There   was  an   old    woman— and  what  do 

you   think? 
She    lived    upon   nothing   but   victuals    and . 

drink- 
Victuals  and  drink   was  the  whole   of  her 

diet— 
And   yet    this    old   woman   could    never    be 

quiet." 

If  Gus  had  seen  the  fiery  flash  of 
Fred's  eye.  at  that  moment  he  might 
have  hesitated  a  little  about  the  com- 
parison. 

"I  dinna  see  how  Maister  Stanley's 
like  that  auld  wumman."  said  the  doc- 
tor, solemnly. 

"Why.  my  dear  doctor,  it's  as  clear  as 
mud,"  said  Gus.  "Fred,  like  the  old  lady 
in  the  rhyme,  'never  is  quiet.*  It's  a  per- 
fect martyrdom  to  a  serious  person  like 
myself  to  be  with  one  as  restless  as  an 
uneasy  conscience,  and  as  fiery  as  one 
of  your  own  Scotch  Douglases." 

Fred  had  not  waited  to  hear  this  ex- 
planation; but,  wrapping  himself  more 
closely  in  his  cloak,  resumed  his  solitary 
march  up  and  down — the  loud  mirth  and 
laughter  from  the  cabin,  amid  which  at 
times    he    could    recognise    the    silvery 


TBE    HERMIT   OF   THE    CLIFFS. 


13 


but  he  ob- 


volce  of  Edith— giving  added  bitterness 
to  his  thoughts.  Poor  Fred!  Like  the 
country  swain  in  love,  he  felt  "hot  and 
dry-like,  with  a  pain  In  his  side  like;" 
and,  like  every  other  young  gentleman 
when  he  first  falls  in  love,  tormenting 
himself  with  a  thousand  imaginary  evils 
— until,  as  Gus  phrased  it,  there  was  "no 
standing  him." 

Upon  their  arrival  in  Boston  Fred 
would  have  started  immediately  to  see 
his  father,  but  Gus,  who  was  to  accom- 
pany Edith  home,  urged  him  to  go  with 
them.  And  Edith  pleaded,  too  —  more 
with  her  eager,  blushing  face  and  elo- 
quent eyes  than  with  words. 

"Do,  Mr.  Stanley,"  she  urged,  laying 
her  little  white  hand  on  his  own — "do 
come  I  Papa  will  be  so  anxious  to  see  one 
who  has  saved  his  daughter's  life." 

Every  nerve  thrilled  at  that  magnetic 
touch;  but  still  he  stood  irresolute. 

"Please,  Mr.  Stanley,"  continued  that 
low,  musical  voice — to  his  ear  the  sweet- 
est he  had  ever  heard,  and  the  starry 
eyes  were  raised  to  the  face  above  her. 

Fred  looked  down,  to  encounter  those 
pleading,  blue  eyes  raised  so  earnestly 
to  his,  and  just  as  you  would  have  done, 
my  dear  sir,  had  you  been  in  his  place, 
he  surrendered. 

The  residence  of  Major  Percival  was. 
several  miles  from  the  city,  and  after 
spending  one  night  at  a  hotel  the  trio 
started  next  morning. 

The  drive  to  Percival  Hall  was  always 
remembered  by  Fr?d  among  the  happiest 
moments  of  his  life.  The  cold  reserve 
which  Edith  had  always  maintained  on 
shipboard  had  entirely  vanished.  An  al- 
most childish  glee  at  being  once  more 
at  home  had  taken  its  place,  and  she 
chatted  and  laughed  with  a  freedom  and 
vivacity  that  completely  finished  poor 
Fred. 

A  sudden  turn  in  the  road  brought 
them,  at  length,  in  sight  of  Percival  Hall. 
An  avenue  of  stately  horse-chestnuts  led 
up  to  the  hall  itself — an  imposing  look- 
ing structure  of  red  brick.  Behind  the 
house  was  an  extensive  orchard,  and, 
nearer  still,  a  pretty  flower  garden. 

"There's  papa — there's  papa!"  ex- 
claimed Edith,  springing  up  and  clap- 
ping her  hands,  and  before  Fred,  who 
had  risen,  could  assist  her,  she  had 
leaped  out,  and  flown  into  the  arms  of 
an  elderly  gentleman,  who  came  hum- 
ming carelessly  down  the  steps  in  front 
of  the  mansion. 

While  the  major,  with  many  an  ex- 
clamation of  surprise  and  delight,  em- 
braced his  daughter.  Fred  scrutinized 
him  from  head  to  foot. 

In  stature  he  was  of  about  middle  size, 
stout  and  squarely  built,  with  prominent 
features  and  high  cheek  bones.  There 
was  an  air  of  sternness  and  command 
about  him,  while  the  firmly  closed  mouth 
betrayed  unusual  obstinacy  in  following 


his  own  opinions.  The  high,  broad  fore- 
head and  massive  head  displayed  a  lofty 
Intellect;  and  there  was  a  piercing  keen- 
ness in  the  gaze  of  his  sharp,  gray  eyes 
that  gave  an  observer  the  uncomfortable 
sensation  that  he  was  reading  his  In- 
most thoughts. 

He  now  advanced  toward  the  young 
man,  who  had  alighted,  and,  holding  out 
his  hand  to  Fred  said,  with  grateful 
courtesy: 

"My  daughter  tells  me,  sir,  that  you 
have  saved  her  life.  I  am  not  in  the 
habit  of  making  fine  speeches,  but  be- 
lieve me,  sir,  the  heartfelt  gratitude  of 
an  old  man  will  ever  follow  you." 

Fred  bowed  in  silence. 

"And  don't  you  know  this  young  gen- 
tleman, papa?"  said  Edith,  with  an  arch 
glance  toward  Gus. 

"I  have  not  that  hon— eh?"  he  added, 
suddenly— "can  it  be?  Bless  my  soul! 
Gus  Elliott,  is  this  yourself?"  and  the 
major  seized  ^hls  hand  with  a  grip  of 
iron. 

"Well,  sir,"  replied  Gus.  with  a  gri- 
mace, "if  ever  I  had  any  doubts  on  the 
subject,  the  aching  of  my  fingers  at 
present  has  convinced  me  I  am  myself, 
and  no  mistake." 

"Well,  well,  well!"  exclaimed  the  ma- 
jor, surveying  him  from  head  to  foot 
with  sharp  eyes,  "how  you  have  shot  up 
since  I  saw  you  last!  And  you're  Gus 
Elliott.  V7ell.  who'd  have  thought  it? 
Edith!  Ah!  she  has  gone,  I  see.  Walk 
up.  gentlemen — walk  up.  Mrs.  Percival 
will  be  delighted  to  see  you." 

So  saying.  Major  Percival  ran  up  the 
steps,  followed  by  the  two  young  men. 
The  long  hall  was  flanked  by  doors  on 
either  side,  and,  opening  one  of  these, 
he  ushered  the  twain  into  the  family 
sitting-room.  Here  they  found  Edith 
clasped  in  the  arms  of  a  handsome  mid- 
dle-aged lady,  while  a  young  girl  stood 
by  her  side,  alternately  laughing  and 
crying. 

"My  wife  and  daughter  Ellen,  M". 
Stanley.  I  suppose,"  he  added,  smiling- 
ly, to  his  wife.  "Edith  has  told  you  all 
about  the  achievements  of  this  promis- 
ing young  gentleman.  There,  there — 
don't  overwhelm  him  with  thanks.  I  see 
by  his  countenance  he  doesn't  like  it! 
Come.  Nell — why  don't  you  thank  your 
sister's  deliverer?" 

"Mamma  won't  give  me  a  chance,"  re- 
plied Nell — a  lively,  dark-eyed  girl,  with 
pretty,  restless  features.  "She  has  mo- 
nopolized Mr.  Stanley  all  to  herself." 

"Well,  there;  I'U  resign  him  to  you, 
saucebox,"  said  Mrs.  Percival,  smiling, 
"though  I  imagine  Mr.  Stanley  will  soon 
tire  of  your  everlasting  chattering." 

"Here  is  some  one  else  you  have  not 

seen  yet,  Nell,"  said  her  sister,  glancing 

I  at  Gus,  who  now  advanced. 

I     "Why,   can   it— no.   It— yes,    it— why,  ? 

,<3eclare  it's  Gus!"  exclaimed  Nell,  as  i*d. 


M 


THE   HERMIT   OF   THE   CLIFFS. 


1 


darted   forward   and    without   ceremony 
flung  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"Dear  me!  Ellen,  that's  shockingly 
improper  conduct!"  said  the  highly  scan- 
daliaed  Mrs.  Percival. 

"Oh,  ain't  it  nice!"  exclaimed  Nell,  as 
she  came  dancing  back,  with  cheeks  and 
eyes  all  aglow.  "We'll  have  such  good 
times,  now  you  and  'Dlth  have  come 
back!" 

"Where  is  Nugent  mamma?"  inquired 
Edith. 

"He  went  away  with  Ralph  De  Lisle, 
about  a  week  ago,  my  clear,"  replied  her 
mother.  "We  expect  them  both  home 
again  In  a  few  days." 

The  name  seemed  to  act  like  a  galvanic 
shock  on  Edith,  who  gave  a  sudden  start 
and  flushed  to  the  temples. 

"And,  oh,  Edith!"  exclaimed  her  vol- 
uble sister,  "you  ought  to  see  Ralph 
since  you  left  him  to  wear  the  willow. 
Poor  fellow!  he  was  such  a  victim  to 
"green  find  yellow  melancholy"  for  a 
week  after  that  I  couldn'f  bear  to  look 
at  him.  My!  won't  he  be  glad  to  hear 
you've  come  back — and  so  will  I.  too.  for 
I  do  long  for  a  wedding  dreadfully." 

"Ellen!"  said  her  mother,  reprovingly. 

"Oh,  well,  mamma,  there's  nobody  here 
that  doesn't  know  all  about  it,"  said  the 
chatterbox.  "But.  dear  me!  Mr.  Stan- 
ley, ain't  you  well?— you  look  like  a 
ghost!" 

Edith,  who  had  been  gazing  steadfast- 
ly out  of  the  window,  now  turned  sud- 
denly round,  and  Fred  started  at  seeing 
the  .deadly  paleness  of  her  face. 

"Ring  the  bell,  Edith,  for  a  glass  of 
water,"  said  Nell.  "Why,  I  declare  you're 
as  bad  yourself,"  she  added,  suddenly 
confronting  her.  "Just  look,  mamma, 
how  pale  they  both  are!  I'm  afraid  it's 
catching.  Do  I  look  pale?"  And  the  se- 
rious expression  of  Nell,  as  she  glanced 
at  her  own  blooming  face  in  the  glass, 
was  truly  laughable. 

But  the  color  that  had  faded  from  the 
face  of  both  speedily  returned.  The  eyes 
of  Fred  and  Edith  met,  and  before  that 
penetrating  glance  hers  fell,  while  a 
vivid  crimson  mantled  cheek  and  brow. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  evening 
the  name  of  Ralph  De  Lisle  was  fre- 
quently mentioned  by  all  save  Edith, 
who  seemed  to  shrink  painfully  from  the 
subject.  From  what  he  heard,  Fred 
judged  De  Lisle  was  a  suitor  for  the 
hand  of  Edith— and  what  was  more,  a 
favored  one. 

When  Fred  retired  that  night  it  was 
with  no  very  pleasant  feelings.  Who  and 
what  was  this  De  Lisle?  He  asked  him- 
self the  question  repeatedly,  without 
mueh  hope  of  obtaining  an  answer.  His 
resolution  was  to  see  Gus  alone,  and,  if 
possible,  obtain  from  him  a  discovery 
without  exciting  suspicion  as  to  the  state 
^-isf  his  own  feelings.    If,  as  he  feared,  he 

^JB  Indeed  beloved  by  her,  then  he  him- 


self would  immediately  depart  and  see 
her  no  more.  ' ' 

The  next  day  an  opportunity  occurred. 
Fred  and  Gus  found  themselves  sepa- 
rated from  the  others  and  straying  arm 
in  arm  through  the  garden. 

"Who  is  this  Ralph  De  Lisle,  about 
whom  they  all  appear  to  be  so  anxious?" 
inquired  Fred,  with  affected  carelessness, 
unconscious  that  he  was  rooting  up  the 
violets  with  his  cane. 

"A  suitor  of  Edith's,  I  believe,"  replied 
Gus,   indifferently. 

"Ah!  and  a  favored  one,  if  I  may 
judge." 

"Hum!  I  should  think  so — they're  to 
be  married  in  a  few  weeks." 

There  was  no  response  from  his  com- 
panion, and  Gus  went  on: 

"The  father  of  this  De  Lisle  was  a 
Frenchman,  and  the  intimate  friend  of 
Major  Percival.  When  dying  he  commit- 
ted his  son  to  his  care,  with  a  request 
that  Edith  and  Ralph,  who  had  always 
been  firm  friends,  should  be  united,  if 
thpy  were  willing,  when  his  son  attained 
his  majority.  Major  Percival  promised 
him  that  his  request  shovild  be  fulfllled. 
{ind  his  word  with  him  is  law  unalter- 
able. The  young  couple  love  each  other, 
it  seems,  so  their  'course  of  true  love' 
runs  smoothly  enough.  Edith  wished  to 
visit  some  friends  of  hers  in  England  be- 
fore she  became  Mrs.  De  Lisle,  and  she 
was  returning  home  when  you  rescued 
her  from  the  burning  ship." 

"Better,  far  better,  I  had  left  her  to 
perish  there!"  was  the  bitter  thought 
that  passed  through  Fred's  mind. 

"De  Lisle  is  an  immense  favorite  with 
the  major,"  continued  Gus;  "some  say 
he  appears  fonder  of  him  even  than  of 
his  own  son.  He  is  the  leader  of  a  gang 
of  Tories,  and  a  Tory  himself  to  the  core 
of  his  heart.  But  here  comes  Nell — 
breezy  and  airy  as  ever." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Stanley!"  she  exclaimed,  as 
she  came  flying  to  him,  "we  are  going 
to  have  a  sailing  party  to-morrow,  and 
you  must  be  sure  -to  come.  So,  if  you 
have  any  engagement  for  that  day,  you 
may  just  break  it  at  once." 

"I  regret  it  is  impossible  for  me  to 
comply,"  said  Fred,  gravely.  "I  must 
depart  to-morrow." 

"Depart  for  where?"  demanded  Gus, 
surprised  at  this  sudden  announcement. 

"To  see  my  father.  I  should  have  gone 
before,  could  I  have  broken  the  spell 
that  bound  me  here!"  and  he  bowed  to 
Nell. 

"Oh,  nonsense, Mr.  Stanley!"  exclaimed 
that  young  lady.  "You  sha'n't  go,  and 
that's  the  end  of  it.  Tour  father  can 
wait  a  day  or  two  very  well.  Sister, 
come  here  and  persuade  Mr.  Stanley  to 
stay.     He's  going  away,"  he  says. 

"Going  away!"  echoed  Edith,  growing 
pale  as  she  spoke. 

"But  we  positively  won't  allow  it,  un- 


TBE    HERMIT   OF    THE    CLIFFS. 


16 


til  after  to-morrow,  at  leftst— shall  we. 
sister?  Coax  him.  like  a  good  girl,  while 
i  have  a  race  with  Carlo—he's  pulling  the 
dress  off  my  back.  You're  such  a  good 
hand  to  persuade  people,  you  know.  I 
remember,  when  De  Lisle  used  to  be 
leaving,  how  you  would  coax  him  to 
stay.     Come.  Carlo!" 

Again  Edith  started  at  the  abrupt 
mention  of  that  name,  and  the  subdued 
light  that  had  filled  Fred's  eye  as  he 
watched  her  changing  face  gave  place  to 
a  look  of  cold  determination.  Gus  urged 
him  presslngly  to  remain,  and  Edith's 
eyes  were  raised  pleadingly  to  his  face 
as  she  faltered  out  a  similar  request.  But 
their  entreaties  were  In  vain.  Fred  de- 
clined politely  but  firmly,  and  entered 
the  house  to  announce  his  determina- 
tion to  Major  Percival  and  his  lady. 
Here,  as  he  expected,  he  was  again  over- 
whelmed with  entreaties  to  remain;  but 
having  resisted  those  of  Edith,  he  found 
little  dlfllculty  in  remaining  firm  in  his 
determination. 

"At  least,  then  you  will  soon  visit  us 
again?"  urged  Mrs.  Percival,  when  she 
found  all  her  entreaties  of  no  avail. 

To  rid  himself  of  their  importunities, 
Fred  promised,  and  early  the  next 
morning  he  was  off. 

The  family  were  all  assembled  on  the 
front  piazza,  to  say  good-by— all  but 
Edith. 

"Where's  Edith?"  inquired  the  major, 
as  he,  too,  missed  her. 

"She  had  a  bad  headache  this  morn- 
ing, and  couldn't  leave  her  room,"  replied 
Nell,  to  whom  the  question  was  ad- 
dressed. "It's  strange,  too!  I  never 
knew  her  to  have  the  headache  before." 

She  glanced  demurely  at  Fred,  who 
was  shaking  hands  with  hec  father,  and 
there  was  a  world  of  meaning  in  her 
bright  eyes. 

"Well,  good-by.  Miss  Ellen,"  he  said, 
approaching  her,  "until  we  meet  again. 
Remember  me  to  your  sister." 

He  bowed,  sprang  in  the  carriage  and 
drove  off,  quite  unconscious  that  from 
her  chamber  window  the  eyes  of  Edith 
were  watching  him  until  he  disappeared. 

'  •*  CHAPTER     VI.  ■  '    > 

'.i  ■■:    .  ■'■     ^  ■ 

FATHER  AND  SON. 

"Fathers  have   flinty    hearts,    no  prayers 
Can  move  them  " 

—Shakespeare. 

It  was  drawing  toward  the  close  of  a 
pleasant  summer  day.  The  sun  was  Just 
sinking  behind  the  western  hilltops,  when 
a  carriage  rattled  along  the  dusty  streets 
and  stopped  before  a  plain  but  commo- 
dious looking  dwelling. 

A  young  man.  tall  and  handsome, 
sprang  out,  and,  turning  to  the  sen  nt, 
whom  the  wheels  had  brought  out  e- 
manded : 


"Does  Sir  William  Stanley  live  here?" 

"Yes.  sir,"  was  the  reply. 

"Is  he  at  home  now?"  inquired  the 
young  man. 

"Ye.s.  sir." 

"Alone?" 

"Yes.  sir." 

"Then  show  me  to  his  room.  I  wish  to 
see  him  Immediately." 

"But,  sir,  really,"  stammered  the  man. 
"Sir  William  dislikes  to  be  Intruded 
upon.  If  you  will  give  me  your  name,  I 
will  announce  you." 

"My  good  fellow.  I'll  not  put  you  to  so 
much  trouble.  Just  show  me  to  his  room 
and  I'll  take  the  consequences." 

Hurried  away  by  the  impatient  and 
commanding  manner  of  the  young  man, 
the  domestic,  sorely  against  his  will,  was 
forced  to  obey.  Preceding  the  impudent 
stranger  (as  he  considered  him),  to  the 
library,  he  opened  the  door  and  ushered 
him  into  the  "presence,"  and  Immediate- 
ly beat  a  precipitate  retreat. 

A  tall,  stately  man,  of  middle  age  and 
military  bearing,  sat  writing  at  a  desk. 
There  was  a  striking  resemblance  be- 
tween the  two— the  same  tall,  command- 
ing figure  —  the  same  haughty,  aristo- 
cratic air,  the  same  fiery,  dark  eye.  But 
the  winning  smile  that  sometimes  gave 
such  a  look  of  inexpressible  sweetness  to 
the  face  of  the  younger,  never  appeared 
on  the  thin,  firmly  compressed  lips  of 
the  other. 

The  noise  made  by  the  openlng-of  the 
door  aroused  him.  He  looked  up  quickly 
with  an  air  of  anger  at  the  Interruption, 
but  as  his  eye  fell  on  the  young  man's 
face,  he  sprang  from  his  seat  and  caught 
him  impetuously  by  the  hand. 

"Fred!  by  all  that's  lucky!"  he  ex- 
claimed. In  a  tone  of  delight,  "when  did 
you  arrive?  I  was  Just  wishing  this  mo- 
ment that  you  were  here." 

"I  only  reached  here  a  day  or  two 
ago,"  replied  Fred,  returning  his  cordial 
grasp. 

"And  how  are  our  friends  in  Paris?" 
inquired  Sir  William. 

"They  are  well,  sir.  I  had  several  let- 
ters for  you  from  them,  but  it  was  my 
fate  to  be  shipwrecked,  and  they  were, 
unfortunately,    lost." 

"Shipwrecked?"  said  the  father,  in- 
quiringly. 

"Yes.  sir,"  replied  Fred,  as  he  related 
their  adventures  on  sea,  omitting,  how- 
ever, that  part  concerning  Edith. 

"So,  Gus  Elliott  accompanied  you,  did 
he?"  inquired  Sir  William,  when  he  had 
concluded.     "Where  is  he  now?" 

"At  his  uncle's.  Major  PercivarB,"  re- 
plied Fred,  beginning  to  trace  the  pat- 
tern of  the  carpet  with  the  end  of  his 
riding  whip. 

"Ah!  indeed?  I  know  his  son,  young 
Percival.  Fine  fellow,  too— fine  fellow! 
And  there's  a  friend  of  his,  too — De 
Lisle,  I  think  they  call  him,"  contlnueA> 


.-* 


,^r.^ 


/• 


16 


THE   HERMIT   OF   THE   GUFFS. 


,  1] 


'i| 


I 


Sir  William,  without  noticing  his  son  s 
sudden  start,  "an  example  for  half  the 
young  men  In  this  rebclllouH  land.  You 
saw,  of  course,  the  appointment  I've  pro- 
cured for  you  In  the  army." 

"T  did,  sir,"  said  Fred,  preparing  him- 
self for  the  storm  that  was  coming. 

"Well.  I  must  say."  said  Sir  William, 
surveying  him  with  a  look  of  calm  sur- 
prlfe.  not  to  say  displeasure,  "that  for 
such  good  news  you  seem  wonderfully 
little  elated.  Why.  sir,  at  your  age  I 
would    have   been   wild   with   delight   at 

such  an  offer."  ^  .  .    ^\.,.         \ 

Fred  still  sat  silent,  and  his  father,  af- 
ter regarding  him  for  a  moment  with  a 
look    of   Increasing    astonishment,    went 

on:  ... 

"There  are  sundry  reports  In  circula- 
tion not  at  all  to  your  credit,  J'rederlc, 
and  though  I  have  always  refused  to  be- 
lieve them,  yet  they  have  given  me  a 
great  deal  of  mortification.  It  is  now 
\\\  your  power  to  prove  these  reports 
false,  and  enable  me  to  hear  my  son's 
name  once  more  without  blushing  for 
him.  You  will  go  Immediately,  and  re- 
port  yourself  fl.t  headquarters." 

The  last  sentence  was  spoken  with  an 
air  of  stern  command  terribly  galling  to 
Fred,  even  though  coming  from  the  lips 
of  a  father.  His  calm,  truth-beaming  eye 
met  that  of  his  father  unflinchingly,  as 
he  rpse  to  his  feet  and  stood  confronting 

him. 
'     "Pardon  me.  sir,"  he  said,  repectfully, 
but  firmly;  "I  cannot  go." 

"Gannot?"  repeated  Sir  William,  start- 
ing back  in  mingled  anger  and  amaze- 
ment. "Good  heaven!  is  it  possible  these 
reports  were  really  true— can  it  be  that 
my  son  is  a  coward?" 

"I  am  no  coward,  sir!"  replied  Fred, 
proudly,  an  indignant  flush  passing  over 
his  face. 

"Then,  sir,  you  are  A  traitor— a  rebel!" 
exclaimed  Sir  William,  fiercely,  as  he 
involuntarily  half  drew  his  sword. 

"Neither,  sir!"  replied  Fred,  with  per- 
fect calmness. 

"Then,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  what 
are  you?"  cried  his  father,  passionately, 
goadM  beyond  all  bounds  by  the  young 
man's  cool,  though  respectful  demeianor. 

Ft'ed  stood  erect,  while  his  eye  lit  nip 
and  encountered,  fearlessly,  the  angry 
orbs  glaring  upon  him. 

"Sir!"  he  said,  proudly,  "I  am  an 
American  by  birth  and  by  feeling.  I 
cannbt  take  Up  arms,^  even  at  the  com- 
mand of  a  father,  against  my  country- 
men!" 

iSir  WilMam  grew  absolutely  livid  with 
passion.  '"    . 

"tJngratfefUl,  undutiftil  wretch!"  he  ex- 
clafnied,  in  a,  voice  tha;t  sounded  hoarse 
and  unnatural  with  rage;  "do  you  dat-e 
to  reply  to  yt>ur  father  thus?  I  cctm- 
m'a:hd  yftu.  sir,  on  your  peril,  nefver  to 
'ipealc   Siich    words    again.     I    tell   you,^ 


mad-headed,  disobedient  youth,  that  you 
will— you  shall— you  must  obey  me!" 

Fred  stood  silent,  with  his  Hrms  fold- 
ed and  a  look  of  unmlstakablo  determi- 
nation in  his  eye. 

"Have  you  heard  me?"  exclaimed  his 
father,  striding  toward  and  glaring  upon 
him  with  fiery  eyes.  "I  say  you  shall 
obey  me!" 

"I  hear  you,  sir,"  replied  Fred,  calm- 
ly, meeting  his  gaze  with  an  unflinching 

eye.  .v  ■■.:■•■••■ 

"And  you  shall  heed  me,  too.  Oo  im- 
mediately. Instantly,  and  report  yourself, 
and  by  your  bravery  strive  to  atone  for 
your  hot-headed  presumption.  D'ye  hear 
me,   sir?"  ,  i->     '^a  v  :>^:'i^    t  ■•, - 

"Yes,  sir."  .-\.:    ^^■;.••".  .:!^. --:>■, -v. 

"And  you  will  obey?"  -^     'v.-,. 

"Most  decidedly  no.  sir!" 

"You  will  not?"  exclaimed  Sir  William, 
with  a  glance  that  might  have  annihi- 
lated him.  it  was  so  intensely,  scorch- 
ingly  angry.  'W^r*-  '  ' 

"No,  Sir!" 

"Base,  degenerate  scoundrel!  Do  you 
not  dread  a  father's  curse?" 

"Not  when  my  conscience  tells  me  I 
have  done  no  wrong,  to  deserve  it." 

"Conscience!"  repeated  his  father  with 
a  bitter,  sneer;  "methinks  that  is  an  ar- 
ticle you  are  but  little  acquainted  with. 
Pray.  Sir  Parson,  have  you  ever  heard 
the  command.  'Honor  thy  father?'  " 

"Yes,  and  I  have  heard  another,  'Hus- 
bands, love  and  cherish  your  wives!' 
Which  in  your  estimation,  sir,  has  the 
greater  force?" 

He  spoke,  almost  without  knowing  it, 
in  a  tone  of  such  concentrated  bitterness 
that  his  father  quailed  before  him. 

"I  am  not  in  the  humor  for  fooling.''  he 
said,  angrily.  "Will  you  or  will  you  not 
obey   me?" 

"You  have  my  answer  already."     'f<-.:.v 

"And  you  still  persist  in  disobeyltisr 
me?" 

"I  must,  sir,  in  this  matter," 

"And  may  I  ask,  inost  patriotic  young 
man.  what  you  intend  doing?"  inquired 
Sir  William,  with  a  sneer  of  withering 
sarcasm.  •'-' 

"I  intend  joining  the  American  army,'',' 
said  Fred,  calmly.  •'•: 

"You  do!"  exclaimed  his  father,  with 
flashing  eyes.  "Do  you  really  mean  to 
say  you  are  going  to  take  sides  against 
me — your  father,  sir?"     ' 

Sir  William  bit  his  lip  and  began  to 
pace  rapidly  up  and  doWn.  He  saw  he 
had  injured  his  own  interest  by  getting 
into  a  passion;  his  son  Wad  not  one  to  toe 
intimidated.  Gentle  language,  he  f^lt, 
would  have  produced  a.  much  greater  ina-' 
pression,  and  all  unused  as  his  lips  were 
to  it,  he  determined  to  try  Its  efficacy. 
It  was  not  that  h(f»  really  loved  his  son 
so  much,  'although  he  did  ■feel  more,  af- 
fection for  him  than  for  any  one  else^ 
but  it  was  not  in  his  selfish  nature  td 


THE    HEUMIT   GF    THE    OLIFFH. 


17 


aisobeyirig 


in  army/ 


love  any  one  much.  The  opinion  of  the 
world  was  what  he  feared;  he  felt  It 
would  be  a  terrible  humiliation  to  be 
pointed  at  hereafter  as  a  man  whose  son 
was  a  rebel!" 

Full  of  this  idea,  he  advanced  toward 
Fred,  who  stood  watching  his  varying 
countenance,  and  reading,  with  his 
searching  eyes,  his  very  inmost  thoughts. 

"Frederic  "  he  said,  in  a  subdued  tone, 
"I  feel  I  h.  e  been  wrong  in  speaking  as 
I  have  done,  but  consider  the  provoca- 
tion. You  are  my  only  child— the  last 
descendant  of  an  ancient  house;  without 
you  to  perpetuate  it  our  family  will  be- 
come extinct.  You  are  my  only  hope, 
Frederic;  you  will  not  desert  me  in  my 
old  age?" 

What  was  begun  in  policy  ended  in  real 
pathos.  His«anger  and  reproaches  had 
fallen  unheeded,  but  his  last  words  went 
to  the  heart  of  Fred. 

"Father,"  he  said,  "I  cannot  alter  my 
determination.  Therefore,  cease  to  urge 
me  to  do  what  duty  forbids." 

"Duty,  Frederic!  Do  not  pervert  the 
word.  Your  duty  is  by  the  side  of  your 
father.  Where  else  should  a  son  be?  This 
cant  about  'freeing  your  country'  is  all 
very  well  for  those  hare-brained  raga- 
muffins who  follow  the  rebel  Washing- 
ton, but  does  not  become  you.  Remain 
with  me,  and  you  will  be  heir  to  one  of 
the  noblest  estates  in  old  England.  Per- 
sist in  this  mad  scheme,  and  I  shall  be 
compelled  to  disinherit  you." 

He  commenced  to  speak  calmly,  but  as 
he  proceeded;  his  anger  overmastered 
every  other  feeling,  and  he  assumed  his 
former  threatening  tone  of  command  to- 
ward the  close. 

"That  last  argument,  father,  was  the 
mbst  ineffectual  one  you  could  have 
used,"  said  his  son,  quietly.  "Wealth  I 
have  never  coveted." 

"Don't  dare  to  call  tne  father!"  said 
the  now  thoroughly  Incensed  parent. 
"You  are  henceforth  no  son  of  mine.  I 
cast  you  off;  I  disown  you,  and  if  you  are 
cz^ught  fighting  for  the  rebels,  I  will  have 
you  huftg  as  a  traitor.  Mark  my  words 
—it  is  no  idle  threat.  And  now,  sir,  be- 
gone Instantly!  Never  darken  these 
doors  again!     Away,  thou  ingrate!" 

He  paused,  choked  with  rage.  Fred's 
fajce  was  deadly  pale;  the  words  sounded 
terribly  unnatural  and  fearful,  coming 
from  a  parent's  lips. 

''Father!  you  do  not  —  you  cannot 
mean"— 

"Away,  sir!"  repeated  Sir  William, 
waving  his  hand.  "I  have  spoken  no 
hasty  words,  to  be  repented  of  after- 
ward! I  never  threaten  what  I  do  not 
intettd  to  perform,  and  if  ever  you  are 
taken  prisoner,  I  repeat  it,  you  shall 
hang  as  high  as  Hftma»!  Yes,  sir,  I  will 
keef»  my  word,  though.  King  G«orfe  him- 
self pleaded  for  you,  and  if  none  other 
could  be  found,  I  would  be  yt)tir  execu- 


tioner myself!  You  have  heard  me!  Be- 
gone!" 

I..ittle  did  either  dream  how  soon  that 
threat  was  to  be  fulfilled. 

He  held  the  door  open,  and  signed  for 
him  to  go.  Without  a  word,  Fred  took 
his  hat  and  quitted  the  house. 

;     .     ...    CHAPTER    VII. 

THE    HP5RMIT    OF    THB    ClLIPFd. 

"It   WHH  a  lonely  spot  Id   which   he  dwelt; 
Man  Mhunned  his  roof,   few  cared  to  ask 
Us  shelter. 
Not  that  the  old  man  bore  an  evil  name. 
But  that  his  house  wiis  lonely." 

-Old  Play. 

Thrke  days  later  Fred  sat  in  the  par- 
lor of  an  unpretending  looking  hotel, 
carelessly  glancing  .over  a  new^papet", 
when  a  waiter  entered  and  finnounped 
that  "a  gemman  was  'qulrin*  for  hin» 
downstairs." 

"For  me?"  repeated  Fred.  "Who  can 
it  be?" 

"Dunno,  sah,"  replied  the  darky,  fan- 
cying the  question  was  addressed  to  him- 
self; "I  'spect"—  . 

"Show  him  up,"  said  Fred,  cutting 
short  the  darky's  exclamation. 

In  a  few  moments  a  tall,  handsome  fel- 
low, with  a  good-humored  look  and  a 
frank,  off-hand  air.  entered.  Advancing 
to  Fred,  he  held  out  his  hand,  with  a 
smile: 

"Mr.  Stanley,  I  believe,"  he  said, 
courteously. 

"Yes,  sir,"  replied  Fred,  bowing;  "but 
I  regret  to  say  lam  quite  ignorant  of  the 
name  of'* — 

"Ah!  beg  pardon!"  interrupted  the 
newcomer.  "My  name  is  Nugent  Percl- 
val.  I  wish  I  could  thank  you  suffi- 
ciently for  the  inestimable  service  you 
have  rendered  us  all  in  saving  my  sis- 
ter's life." 

Fred  strov-">  to  affect  a  genteel  Indiffer- 
ence, though  he  felt  the  blood  rushing , to 
his  face. 

"Pray  do  not  mention  it,"  he  replied- 
"I  am  only  too  happy  to  have  had  the 
opportunity,  of  saving  her.  I  trust  she 
is  well?"  .  -: 

"Yes,  Edith  is  quite  well,  an€  joins 
most  urgently  with  the  rest  of  the  fam- 
ily In  inviting  you  to  return  with  me 
home.  Do  not  refuse.  Mr.  Stanley,"  he 
continued,  seeing  the  almost  haughty  ex- 
pression of  Fred's  face;  "you  have  no 
idea  how  disappointed  they  will  all  be. 
Gus  would  have  accompanied  me  here, 
but  my  sister  Nell  positively  refused  to 
let  him  go — for  fear,  as  she'expressed  it, 
he  might  get  shipwrecked  again." 

Fred  smiled  and  walked  Irresolutely  to 
the  window.  Edith  urged  him  to  return: 
his  heart  leaped  at  the  words,  but  a 
moment's  thought  convinced  iiini  that 
Percival  had  merely  used  the  words  al8 


18 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    GUFFS. 


a  matter  of  form.  Still,  he  felt  an  In- 
ward wish  to  Ko.  Something  made  him 
fancy  FMIth  was  not  wholly  Indifferent 
to  him,  and  he  lonRcd  to  hear  her  say 
HO  with  htr  own  lips.  But,  then,  her  af- 
rtanced  Do  Lisle?  What  If  he  were  there? 
Well,  even  wo  It  would  be  a  comfprt  to 
see  what  manner  of  man  his  rival  was. 
Still,  then  there  was  an  undefined  hope 
that  he  was  not  at  Perclvnl  Hall. 

"1  hardly  know,"  he  said,  hesitating, 
"whether  to  Intrude  a  second  time  or  not. 
There  may   be  strangers"—     He  paused. 

"Only  the  family."  said  Perclval,  In  hla 
frank  way.  "So  If  meeting  strangers  Is 
your  only  objection,  you  aee  you  can  no 
longer  refuse.  Come,  Stanley  (excuse 
my  famlilarlty),  you  must  rome  back 
wHh  me.  I  have  been  threatened  with 
all  manner  of  calamities  by  Nell  (who, 
by  the  way,  pronounces  you  'a  love  of  a 
man')    If  T  did  not  bring  you." 

There  was  something  Fred  could  not 
resist  in  the  courteous,  winning  manner 
of  young  Perclval.  He  resembled  Edith, 
too,  fai-  more  than  did  her  sister,  and 
this,  perhaps,  was  the  secret  cause  that 
drew  Fred   toward   him. 

"Well,  since  a  lady  commands  It,  I 
must  obey."  he  said,  gayly,  as  he  ran 
bis  fingers  through  his  dark  elf-locks. 
"When    do   you    start?" 

"My  orders  are  to  wait  lor  you,  sir." 
replied  Perclval.  and  I  shall  most  assur- 
edly do  so,  not  having  courage  to  brave 
the  storm  I  should  meet  with  did  I  ven- 
ture to  return  without  you.  Therefore, 
until  you  are  ready,  I  remain  your  ver;' 
bumble  servant." 

"Then  you  are  not  likely  to  be  de- 
tained," said  Fred,  "as  I  am  like  the  sol- 
dier's wife— ready  to  march  on  a  mo- 
ment's warning." 

"Very  good!"  said  Perclval:  "what  say 
you  to  starting  to-morrow?" 

"T  have  no  objection,"  replied  Ffed.  "I 
am  only  spending  a  day  or  two  here,  to 
kill  time." 

The  matter  being  thus  arranged.  Per- 
clval. after  conversing  for  a  short  time 
on  ordinary  topics,  took  his  leave.  The 
next  morning  found  them  en  route. 
:  There  was.  we  must  confess  it.  an  un- 
usual throbbing  at  Fred's  heart  when  he 
again  encountered  Edith.  She  was  look- 
ing better— more  cheerful  than  he  had 
ever  seen  her,  he  fancied — and  the  cold 
reserve  with  which  she  had  formerly 
treated  him.  seemed  entirely  forgotten  in 
the  unfeigned  pleasure  with  which  she 
welcomed  him  back.  Fred  fancied,  or, 
rather,  hoped,  this  might  be  caused  by 
the  prolonged  absence  of  De  Lisle  (who 
had  not  yet  made  his  appearance),  and 
noticing  the  eager,  happy  look  with 
which  she  met  him.  his  heart  leaped 
with  the  wild  hope  that  perhaps  she 
loved  him,  after  all. 

The  greeting  of  the  rest  of  the  family 
was  most  cordial,  especially  that  of  Nell. 


That  young  lady  declared  "she  hadn  t 
had  a  bit  of  fun  since  he  left;  she  never 
was  at  a  loss  for  something  to  laugh  at 
when  he  was  present;  it  was  so  funny 
to  see  him  sitting  so  stiff  and  dlgnlfled. 
looking  more  like  a  banished  prince  than 
an  every-day  Christian," 

A  week  passed  rapidly  away  at  Petcl- 
val  Hall.  Rides,  drives  and  walks  fol- 
lowed each  other.  In  all  of  which  Fred 
unaccountably  found  himself  the  com- 
panion of  Edith.  Gus.  who  was  general- 
ly at  his  wits'  end  by  the  caprices  of 
Nell,  found  enough  to  do  In  taking  care 
of  that  eccentric  young  damsel.  And 
Perclval  usually  started  off  by  himself, 
leaving  the  well-satisfied  couples  behind 
him  to  their  own  devices.  There  was  a 
dangerous  fascination  for  Fred  In  these 
Interviews.  Sometimes,  "feeling  half 
ashamed  of  loitering  here  In  idleness, 
when  duty  called  elsewhere,  he  would 
resolve  to  depart  immediately;  but  days 
passed  on.  and  he  found  it  impossible 
to  tear  himself  away.  He  strove  to  stifle 
the  twinges  of  conscience  by  specious  ar- 
guments: but  reflection  would  not  be 
stlfl'?d,  do  as  he  would. 

"W^ll.  Stanley,  have  my  sisters  intro- 
duced you  to  all  the  celebrities  of  the 
place?"  asked  Perclval,  one  warm,  sunny 
afternoon,  as  the  whole  party,  after  a 
longer  ramble  than  usual,  strolled  to- 
ward the  house. 

"No,"  said  Nell;  "we  haven't  visited 
the  hermit  yet!" 

"And  why  have  you  not  brought  him 
there.  Puss?"  Inquired  her  brother. 

"Because  the  hermit  was  absent,  off 
on  one  of  his  crazy  rambles."  replied 
Nell.  "He  only  returned  this  morning. 
Old  Mat,  the  gardener,  told  me." 

"Then  suppose  we  go  in  a  party  and 
pay  the  old  gentleman  a  visit?"  said 
Perclval. 

"Pray."  inquired  Fred,  "who  is  the  her- 
mit?" 

"Oh!  a  most  singular  and  eccenttic  old 
man,"  replied  Perclval;  "one  alike  feared 
and  shunned  and  beloved  by  the  vil- 
lagers. He  resides  a  few  miles  from 
here,  near  the  seashore,  and  is  a  lunatic, 
but  perfectly  harmless.  There  Is  a  ran'ge 
of  rocks  in  that  direction,  which  has 
been  known  from  time  immemorial  by 
the  name  of  'The  Cliffs,'  and  from  his 
fondness  for  strolling  about  there  he  has 
received  the  singular  and  somewhat  ro- 
mantic name  of  the  Hermit  of  the  Cliffs. 
He  first  made  his  appearance  here  a  few 
years  ago.  and  from  his  skill  in  herbs 
and  medicine,  became  a  favorite.  He 
has  built  a  sort  of  cabin  up  among  the 
cliffs,  and  here  he  has  since  resided, 
spending  his  time  in  cultivating  a  little 
garden  or  wandering  among  the  rocks. 
His  name  is  unknown,  but  he  is,  no 
doubt,  some  unfortunate  whom,  the  cares 
of  the  world  have  made  an  Idiot." 

"I  feel  rather  curious  to  see  this  sin- 


"she  hadn  t 
ft;  8he  never 
:  to  lau^h  nt 
'as  BO  funny 
md  dignified, 
1  prince  than 

ay  at  Petcl- 
d   walks   fol- 

whlch  Fred 
?lf  the  coin- 
was  Keneral- 

caprlcea   of 

taking:  care 
amsel.      And 

by  himself, 
uplea  behind 
rhere  was  a 
'red  In  these 
eeling  half 
in  idleness. 
e,  he  wouM 
y;  but  days 
t  Impossible 
rove  to  stifle 
specious  ar- 
)uld    not    be 

isters  intro- 
•ities  of  the 
varm,  sunny 
rty,  after  a 
strolled    to- 

en't    visited 

rought   hlni 

rother. 

absent,    off 

BS,"    replied 

s   morning. 

me." 

party  and 

islt?"    said 

I  is  the  her- 

centric  old 
ilike  feared 
y  the  vll- 
Tilles  from 
3  a  lunatic, 

is  a  ran:ge 
which  has 
^morial  by 
from  his 
lere  he  has 
lewhat  ro- 

the  Cliffs. 
here  a  few 
1  in  herbs 
orite.  He 
imong  the 
e  resided, 
ng  a  little 
the   rocks. 

he    is,    no 

the  cares 
iot." 
■  this  sln- 


TUE    HERMIT    OF    TUB    GJAFFS. 


19 


'Liet   us 


gular   porsonage."    said    Fred, 
visit  him  by  all  means." 

"Is  It  not  too  far.  brother?"  said  Edith, 
anxlouily.  "The  sun  will  have  set  be- 
fore we  return." 

"What  odds?"  interrupted  the  Impetu- 
ous Nell.  "We  can  return  by  moon- 
light, which  will  be  twice  as  pleasant." 
And  Nell  hummed:  -  - 

"Moonlight  hours  were  made  for  love." 

"Let  us  start,  then."  said  Gus,  "If  we 
are  to  visit  the  wizard.    There  Is  no  time 

to  lose."  ,.     ;  * 

For  a  while  the  party  walked  on  to- 
gether, chatting  gayly;  but  the  usual 
phenomenon  took  place  before  they  had 
proceeded  far.  Gus  and  Nell  saw  some- 
thing very  interesting  on  ahead  that 
caused  them  to  quicken  their  steps,  while 
Fred  and  Edith  found  It  quite  conven- 
ient to  walk  slowly.  There  was  a 
scarcely  repressed  smile  hovering  about 
Voung  Perclval's  lips.  as.  undev  the  plea 
of  acting  as  guide,  he  walked  on  by  him- 
self in  advance  of  the  rest. 

Two  hours'  slow  walking  brought  them 
to  the  cliffs,  a  high,  steep,  craggy  range 
of  rocks.  As  a  matter  of  course,  each 
party  sought  the  cottage  .of  the  hermit 
by  a  different  path.  Fred  and  his  fair 
companion,  absorbed  in  conversation, 
had  nearly  forgotten  the  object  of  their 
visit  when,  turning  an  abrupt  angle  In 
the  path,  he  raised  his  head,  shook  back 
his  dark  locks,  and  his  eye  fell  on  the 
most  singular  looking  personage  he  had 
ever  beheld. 

It  was  an  old  man  of  grave  and  ma- 
jestic aspect,  who  stood  leaning  on  a 
staff.  His  long,  white  hair  and  beard 
flowed  over  his  robes  and  gave  to  his 
pale  but  benign  countenance  a  venerable 
look  that  immediately  commanded  re- 
spect A  small  skull-cap  of  black  velvet 
was  on  his  head,  forming  a  strong  con- 
trast to  the  hoary  whiteness  of  his  aged 
locks.  His  dress  was  most  singular,  con- 
sisting of  a  long,  flowing  robe  of  some 
dark  stuff,  that  swept  the  ground  as  he 
walked,  and  was  confined  at  the  waist 
by  a  girdle  of  black  velvet.  Altogether, 
his  appearance  was  so  odd.  so  singular, 
that  Fred  stood  staring  at  him,  trans- 
fixed with  astonishment.  The  hermit 
himself  stood  gazing  upon  them  for  a 
moment;  then,  raising  his  cap.  he  said, 
in  a  grave,  impressive  voice,  laying  his 
hand  on  his  heart: 

"Peace  be  between  us,  my  children." 

"Amen,  father!"  responded  Edith,  who 
was  familiar  with  the  singular  appear- 
ance and  address  of  the  hermit,  while 
Fred  still  stood  lost  in  wonder. 

"Why  hast  thou  visited  me  this  even- 
ing, my  daughter?"  said  the  old  man, 
turning  to  Edith. 

"My  friend"— and  she  glanced  toward 


Fred— "has  hsard  no  muoh  of  the  Hermit 
of  the  Cliffs  that  he  was  anxlouH  to  visit 
you.  Therefore  I  took  the  liberty  of 
bringing  him." 

The  old  man  turned  slowly  and  fixed 
his  mild,  dark  eye  on  the  face  of  the 
young  man. 

"What  Is  thy  name,  my  son?"  he  In- 
quired. 

"I  am  called  Frederic  Stanley,  good 
father."  said  Prod,  raising  his  hat  and 
bowing  with  deep  reverence. 

The  eyes  of  the  hermit  were  fixed  on 
him  long  and  steadily,  as  If  striving  to 
read  his  Inmost  thoughts.  As  if  still  un- 
certain, he  approache<l.  and,  pushing 
back  the  thick  curls  that  fell  darkly  over 
the  young  man's  brow,  gazed  earnestly 
Into  the  calm,  dark  eyea  that  fearlessly 
met  his  own.  Edith  looked  up  In  Fred'a 
face  with  a  smile. 

"Yes."  said  the  hermit  at  last,  speak- 
ing more  to  himself  than  to  the  listeners, 
"he  has  his  father's  proud  beartng  and 
haughty  eyes.  The  same  Impetuous 
bravery,  but  a  nobler  and  more  gener- 
ous heart." 

"Do  you  know  my  father?"  inquired 
the  young  man.  In  surprise. 

"Yes.  better,  perhaps,  than  he  does 
himself.  I  know  him  for  a  rash,  self- 
willed,    obstinate,    hard-hearted    man." 

"Sir.  he  Is  my  father!"  said  Fred, 
flushing  angrily. 

The  penetrating  eye  of  the  hermit  was 
fixed  steadily  on  his  face. 

"And  can  you  defend  him.  he  said,  "af- 
ter parting  from  him  as  you  did  last?" 

Fred  stood  aghast.  The  meeting  be- 
tween the  father  and  son  had  been 
stJ'lctly  private,  and  yet  this  mysterious 
being  seemed  to  know  all  that  had  oc- 
curred. 

"How  came  you  to  know  of  our  last 
meeting?"  he  demanded.  Imperiously. 

"Perhaps  I  know  more  than  you  are 
aware  of.  my  son."  said  the  hermit, 
while  something  like  a  faint  smile 
passed  over  his  face. 

"Pshaw!"  exclaimed  Fred.  Impetuous- 
ly, "you  have  merely  made  a  clever 
guess.  Since  you  know  we  are  both 
fiery-tempered,  it  required  no  great  skill 
to  predict  that  we  might  differ." 

"Shall  I  convince  you,  most  noble 
doubter,  that  I  know  of  what  I  speak?'' 
said  the  hermit,  quietly. 

"If  you  can,"  replied  Fred,  with  an  in- 
credulous smile. 

"Then  name     the  way." 

"Tell  me  of  the  past."  said  Fred, 
glancing  meaningly  at  Edith. 

"Be  It  so.  We  will  begin  with  your 
age.  You  will  be  t\yenty-flve  years  old 
the  third  of  next  November." 

Fred  bowed,  with  a  look  of  surprise. 

"Your  mother  died  alone  and  In  sor- 
row: the  hands  of  strangers  placed  her 
in  the  grave." 

Fred  grew  deadly  pale  and  drew  back. 


I      l*' 


Ik) 


TIIK    HKKxil'i'   nt'   Tilt:   CUKf'B. 


"You  havp  porforntied  gome  Kreat  serv- 
Wc  for  the  lady  by  your  Hide."  continued 
the  hermit,  quietly.  "And  at  present  lin- 
irer  with  her  h«>re.  nt'KlertluR  the  duty 
for    which    your    father    haw    disowned 

^""EnouKh.  sir."  Interrupted  Fred, 
haughtily.  "Be  you  man  or  demon.  I  will 
llBtcn  to  no  ImpututlonH  on  my  conduct. 
How  you  have  obtained  thiB  Information 
concerning  me  I  know  not;  neither  do  I 
care.  Come.  MIph  Perclval.  let  us  go; 
the  evening  air  Is  too  damp  for  you,  anJ 
I  see  our  friends  are  on  their  way  home. 
I  wish  you  good  evening,  Sir  Sage."  And, 
ralFing  his  hat,  Fred  turned  coldly  away. 

"Stay  one  moment,"  said  the  hermit, 
laying  his  hand  on  the  young  man's 
arm  and  speaking  with  such  deep  sol- 
emnity that  It  awed  him  in  spite  of  him- 
self. "Stay,  rash  youth,  and  be  warned. 
Beware  of  false  friends.  There  is  dan- 
ger at  hand;  you  will  soon  meet  one  who 
can  work  you  much  evil.  I  am  your 
friend,  though  you  may  not  believe  It 
Go,  and  be  warned!  Despise  not  the 
words  of  one  to  whom  age  has  brought 
wisdom.  Farewell,  my  children,  and 
Heaven  bless  you!" 

He  bowed,  and.  turning  slowly  round, 
disappeared  among  the  rocks. 

"Let  us  go,"  said  Edith,  who  clung, 
pale  and  trembling,  to  Frod'?<  arm;  "his 
words  frighten  me." 

"Fear  not.  fairest  Edith;  those  oml- 
notis  words  were  not  meant  for  you." 
said  Fred,  gently,  as  he  wrapped  her 
shawl  close  around  her  and  hurried  down 
the  rocks. 

"It  may  be  wrong— It  may  be  supersti- 
tious," said  Edith,  "but  I  feel  the  stran- 
gest presentiment  of  coming  danger 
stealing  over  me.  Something  terrible 
and  undefined,  from  which  I  shrink  in 
fear  and  horror." 

"I  thought  your  nerves  were  too  strong 
to  be  thus  shaken  by  the  idle  raving  of 
a  moonstruck  man,"  said  Fred,  gravely. 

"I  am  not  nervous,"  said  Edith,  earn- 
estly. "It  is  a  feeling  for  which  I  can- 
not account.  Strange,  is  it  not,  that  the 
old  man  could  tell  you  of  the  past  so 
truly?" 

"It  is,  indeed!"  said  Fred,  thoughtful- 
ly.   "I  cannot  account  for  it." 

During  the  remainder  of  the  Journey 
home  both  were  silent  and  thoughtful. 
It  might  be  fancy,  but  Fred  thought 
there  was  something  more  confiding  than 
usual  in  the  way  Edith  clung  to  his 
arm.  The  moonlight  fell  softly  around 
ere  they  reached  Perclval  Hall,  subduing 
with  its  lights  and  shadows  the  irregu- 
lar outline  of  the  building.  As  they 
walked  slowly  up  the  avenue  in  front, 
Nell  came  flying  down  the  steps  all  in  a 
flutter  of  surprise 

"Edith!  Edith!"  she  cried,  as  she 
caught  Right  of  her  sister,  "guess  who'« 
come'" 


"Who?"  said  Edith. 

"Why.  nobody  less  than  Ralph  Dc 
Lisle!" 

What  meant  Edith's  convulsive  start.' 
She  lift»'d  her  eyes  to  i\.^  Jark,  handsom<- 
face  above  her,  and  Fred  was  struck  by 
her  deadly  paleness.  Their  eyes  met,  and 
that  one  glan<e  told  what  tlH'lr  lips  had 
never  spoken. 

CHAPTER     VIIL 
THE    RIVALS. 

"It   Is  a  dreadful  ijuestlon.    wh«'n   we   love, 
To  ask  is  lovf  returned." 

-The   Hunchh.nck 

"Come  along,  Edith;  here  is  a  friend  of 
yours!"  called  the  cheerful  voice  of 
young  Perclval.  as  they  entered  the  hall. 

Still  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Fred— for 
she  trembled  with  Inward  omotlon-- 
Edith  entered  the  parlor.  A  gentleman 
arose,  and  advanced  toward  her  with 
extended  hand. 

Fred  ran  his  eye  over  his  rival  from 
head  to  foot.  He  was  tall,  considerably 
above  middle  height,  elegant  In  person 
and  easy  In  address.  His  features,  taken 
separately,  were  decidedly  handsome: 
but  there  was  a  sinister  look  In  the  ever- 
restless  glances  of  his  keen,  black  eyes. 
His  complexion  was  dark — almost  swar- 
thy—with hair,  mustache  and  whiskers 
of  shining.  Jetty  blackness.  There  was 
an  expression  about  the  well-cut  mouth 
Fred  could  not  tolerate,  and  the  fore- 
head, though  high,  was  narrow  and  re- 
treating. He  was  dressed  In  the  height 
of  fashion,  and  everything  about  him. 
even  to  the  carefully  modulated  tones  of 
his  voice,  bespoke  the  perfect  gentleman 

"Mr.  Stanley— Mr.  De  Lisle,'  said 
Edith,  making  a  faint  attempt  at  an  in- 
troduction. 

^  Fred  bowed  coldly  and  haughtily,  and 
fiis  salute  was  with  equal  haughtiness 
acknowledged.  There  was  something  so 
contemptuous  In  the  supercilious  air 
with  which  De  Lisle  regarded  him,  that 
Fred's  eyes  flashed  and  his  cheek  crim- 
soned with  anger. 

"This  Is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  eh. 
Edith?"  said  her  father.  "You  did  not 
expect  to  see  your  intended  so  soon,  did 
you?" 

Edith  suddenly  discovered  there  was 
an  interesting  view  from  the  window, 
and  couldn't  possibly  hear  her  father's 
words. 

"I  say,  Ralph,"  said  Nell,  leaning  over 
his  chair  with  a  short  laugh,  "you  had 
better  look  out  for  Edith!  Mr.  Stanley's 
better  looking  than  you  are,  and" — 

The  rest  of  the  sentence  was  lost  in 
a  whisper. 

An  angry  flush  passed  over  De  LIsle's 
face,  as  he  bit  his  lip  till  it  grew  blood- 
less. Fred  sat  talking  to  Mrs.  Perclval 
with    great    empressement,     though    he 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    VUFFH. 


n    Ralph    I)e 


ht-flvd  every  word  of  NpIIIo'h  remark,  nnd 
h«>  awaited  the  reiiponiie  with  deep  Inter- 

t'Ht. 

Oh.  there  !■  no  danger!  I  am  not 
jifrnld  of  him."  replied  De  Lisle,  with  a 
-IK  »M'  of  IntenHe  tontempt. 

"Don't     be    too     certain."     said     Nell. 

Don't  you  remember  the  proverb.  'Noth- 
iiiK  Is  certain  In  this  uncertain  world?' 
Well.  It'n  an  true  aa  preanhInK;  so  you 
h.ul  better  look  out.  If  'Dlth  gives  you 
the  sack  some  fine  morning,  don't  say  I 
iiuin't  give  you  fair  warning." 

"I  have  a  better  opinion  of  your  hIb- 
ttMM  taste,  my  pretty  Black  Eyes.  If  I 
am  to  be  a  discarded  lover,  I  trust  It  will 
tint  be  for  an  unknown  adventurer  and 
ivbel."  said  De  Hale.  In  the  samt>  sneer- 
ing tone. 

It  may  be  Imagined  with  what  feelings 
Fred  listened  to  this  dialogue.  His  nery 
spirit  was  roused  beyond  endurance  by 
the  last  Insult,  nnd,  forgetting  his  posi- 
tion as  guest,  he  was  about  to  make  some 
(ieroe  retort,  when  Gus  strolled  leisurely 
in  and  asked  Nell  what  she  was  talking 
about. 

"Repeating  poetry,  ain't  we.  Ralph?" 
said  Nell,  with  an  arch  glance. 

"That's  a  good  child.  Hay  some  more," 
said  Gus.  lounging  on  a  couch. 

Nell,  always  prepared  for  an  emergen- 
cy, stood  with  clasped  hands  In  the  mid- 
dle of  the  floor  and  repeated  solemnly: 

"My  mother  she   tells   me 
Nature  has  given  the  lips— 
Lips  to  apeak  with,  my  daughter,  my  own. 
And  so  thou  must   use   them   for  speaking 
alone. 

But  why  are  they  red.  then? 
White   lips   would  answer  for  speaking  as 
well ; 

And  why  has  she  said,  then— 
Onlv  for  speaking?     Oh!  who  can  tell 
A   poor  little  Innocent   girl    like  me. 
I-'or  what  but  to  speak  with  can  my  mouth 
be?' 

"Phall  I  tell  you?"  said  Gus,  taking  a 
step  toward  her:  but.  gliding  through  his 
nands  as  If  she  had  been  a  sunbeam,  she 
vanished  through  the  open  doors. 

"Shall  we  take  a  stroll  in  the  gar- 
den?" said  Perclval,  advancing  toward 
him.  "The  night  is  too  fine  to  be  spent 
within  doors," 

Fred,  glad  to  escape  from  the  stream 
of  small  talk  with  which  Mrs.  Perclval 
was  overwhelming  him.  arose,  and,  pass- 
ing his  arm  through  that  of  his  friend, 
quitted  the  house. 

'I  heard  the  remarks  of  that  thought- 
lesf!  sister  of  mine."  remarked  Perclval, 
in  a  tone  of  slight  embarrassment,  "and, 
feeling  you  must  be  annoyed,  took  the 
liberty  of  inviting  you  out.  I  trust  you 
have  too  mur'r  good  sense  to  feel  hurt  at 
anything  Nell  may  say." 

"Did  you  hear  what  he  said?"  de- 
manded Fred,  almost  fiercely. 

"I  did.  and  I  felt  as  much  annoyed  by 


It  myself  as  you  could  poMlbly  b«.  It 
was  too  bad  of  De  Llsle~too  bad,  poal- 
tively.  Rut  we  must  make  allowances 
for  these  lovers,  Mr.  Htanley,"  he  said, 
pmlling.  "Jealousy  will  make  the  best  -n 
thetn  slightly  impertinent.  He  was  vex^/J 
with  Kdlth,  too.  Her  welcome,  as  you 
doubtless  perceived,   was  a  cold  one." 

"That  he  should  dart>  to  call  me  an  ad- 
venturer!" exclaimed  Fred,  with  flashing 
eyes.  "I,  who  have  descended  from  'me 
of  the  proudest  fanjllles  In  England!  And 
that  I  should  be  obliged  to  Bit  tamely 
tlown  and  bear  with  the  Insult!" 

He  ground  his  teeih  and  clenched  hlil 
li;inds   with  Huppressed   passion. 

"Oh,  never  mind,  my  dear  fellow!"  said 
Perclval.  soothingly.  "Ralph  Is  a  hot- 
headed youth,  and  when  angry  Is  not 
very  choice  In  the  words  he  uses.  I  beg 
you'll  think  no  more  a,bout  it.  Nell's  re- 
innrks  were  very  tantalizing  to  a  lover, 
you  must  allow.  I  shall  caution  her 
iiRalnst   speaking  so  again." 

"I  tell  you,  Perclval!"  exclaimed  Fred, 
vehemently.  "Were  he  not  your  father's 
guest,  as  I  am.  I  would  call  him  out  and 
make  hlni  retract  his  words  or  shoot  him 
like  a  dog.  'Rebel  and  adventurer!'  "  he 
repeated,  still  more  flrvcely.  "Is  It  from 
.1  hound  like  that  mustached  puppy  I 
I'lust  bear  such  an  insult?" 

"My  dear  Stanley,"  said  Perclval,  lay- 
ing his  hand  on  the  young  man's  shoul- 
der, "I  beg  there  may  be  no  quarreling 
on  this  subject.  Consider  my  Bister's 
name  will  be  involved,  and  as  you  are  a 
man  of  honor,  you  will  submit  to  this 
taunt  rather  than  that  the  breath  of 
slander  should  be  affixed  to  her." 

"For  your  sister's  sake  I  would  do  any- 
thing—submit to  anything!"  exclaimed 
Fred,  Impetuously.  Then,  seeing  the 
other's  look  of  surprise,  he  added,  almost 
fiercely:  "Do  you  think  I  am  blind— do 
you  think  I  have  the  heart  of  a  stone?  do 
you  think  It  possible  that  I  could  be  con- 
tinually in  your  sister's  society  and  not 
become  interested  in  her?  I  tell  you, 
Nugent  Perclval.  I  love  your  sister, 
though  she  be  betrothed  to  the  man  I , 
hate,  Ralph  De  Lisle." 

There  was  something  appalling  in  the 
unsubdued  fierceness  with  which  he 
spoke.  His  eyes  seemed  actually  to  emit 
flashes  of  fire,  and  his  steps  resounded. 
aa  he  paced  up  and  down,  as  though  he 
was  shod  with  Iron.  There  was  a  cloud 
on  the  handsome  features  of  Nugent  Per- 
clval. as  he  again  placed  his  hand  on  his 
.«ihoulder  and  said: 

"My  dear  Stanley,  my  dear  fellow,  I 
nm  sorry  for  you.  I  never  dreamed  that 
this  was  the  case.  I  would  to  Heaven 
Edith's  choice  had  fallen  upon  you  first, 
instead  of  De  Lisle.  But  It  is  too  late 
now.  And  for  the  sake  of  peace— for  the 
happiness  of  all— I  beg  you  will  endeavor 
to  avoid  a  quarrel  with  him  while  he  re- 
mains here.    He  is  a  perfect  flend  when 


I 


22 


TBB   HERMIT   OP   THE   GUFFB. 


rousedf  and  I  greatly  fear  the  happiness 
of  our  whole  household  will  be  destroyed 
should  anything  pceur." 
,  VPorglV*  me,  my  dear  Percivalf  I  have 
h«en  mad.  Tormorrbw  I  will  depart.  I 
have  loitered  here  too  long,  neglecting 
the  duty  which  caUs  me  away.  De 
Lisle's  taunt  shall  be  borne  this  time, 
but  should  we  meet  again,"— he  paused, 
but  his  eyes  finished  the  sentence. 

"Oh,  come,  Stanley:  you  mustn't  think 
of  going  to-morrow/'  interposed  Percl- 
val.  "Do  you  not  know  to-morrow'  is 
Nellie's  seventeenth  birthday,  and  she  is 
to  celebrate  it  by  a  paity  in  the  evening? 
Come,  my  good  friend,  be  reasonable! 
You  cannot  depart  to-morrow.  The 
thing  is  impossible!"  Fred  knit  his  brow 
and  paced  moodily  up  and  down.  "Be- 
side, if  you  leave  us  so  suddenly,"  con- 
tinued Perclval,  in  his  frank,  cheerful 
way,  "I  will  think  that  my  words  have 
driven  you  off.  That  would  he  a  poor 
requital  for  saving  my  sister's  life." 

"For  that  I  need  no  thanks,"  said 
Fred,  huskily.  Then,  .seeing  the  anxious 
expression  on  Percival's  face,  he  said, 
nftore  composedly:  "My  dear  friend,  I 
will  remain,  as  you  request,  but  I  cer- 
tainly must  depart  on  the  day  following. 
Duty  to  my  country  imperatively  calls 
me  away." 

"Ah!  Edith  told  me  something  of 
this!"  said  Perclval,  while  a  flush  tinged 
his  cheek.     "Stanley,  I  envy  you." 

"Envy  me!"  exclaimed  Fred,  bttterly. 

•^Yes,  for  I  have  no  doubt  a  brilliant 
career  is  in  store  for  you.  For  me,  it  is 
out  of  the  question." 

"And  why,  may  I  ask?" 

"Oh!  the  reason  is  simple  enough.  I 
will  not  accept  a  commission  in  the  Eng- 
lish army,  and  there  would  be  the  deuce 
to  pay  did  I  enlist  in  any  other.  I  have 
not  courage  to  face  my  father's  anger, 
BO  I  choose  to  remain  neutral.  Rather 
cowardly,  is  it  not?" 

He  laughed  carelessly  as  he  spoke,  but 
there  was  a  bitterness  in  his  tone  that 
.did  not  escape  Fred. 

"There's  De  Lisle  now,"  he  continued. 
"He's  a  red-hot  Tory,  and  is  considered 
both  by  my  father  and  yours  as  the  beau 
ideal  of  what  a  young  man  in  these 
troublous  times  should  be.  There's  some- 
thing almost  fiendish  in  the  hate  with 
which  he  pursues  the  'rebel  Yankees.*  I 
always  considered  mercy  a  necessary  vir- 
tue in  a  soldier,  but  he  looks  upon  it  as 
quite  superfluous,  not  to  say  childish. 
He  is  the  leader  of  a  gang  of  savage- 
looking  cutthroats,  more  like  Spanish 
bandits,  to  my  mind,  than  Christian  sol- 
diers. With  these  he  goes  hovering 
about,  never  bringing  about  any  particu- 
lar result,  but  harassing  the  enemy  and 
cutting  off  straggling  parties.  Heigho!" 
h^  aidaed,  suddenly  changing  his  tone, 
*4>e  does  soraet)tlng  after  all,  and  that  is 
more  than  I  can  say." 


"But  why,"  demanded  Fred,  "do  you 
not  declai'e  your  real  sentiments  to  your 
father,  and  follow  the  dictates  of  your 
own  conscience?  It  seems  to  me  (pardon 
my  plain  speakingX  that  there  is  some- 
thing unmanly  in  acting  this  way." 

Perclval  turned  away  his  head  for  a 
moment,  and  when  he  again  spoke  his 
voice  was  low  and  husky. 

"I  would  do  so,  Stanley;  Heaven  knows 
it  is  from  no  unworthy  motive  that  T 
shrink  from  it,  but  my  mother.  It  would 
kill  her." 

"My  dear  Percival>"  said  Fred,  grasp- 
ing his  hand,  "say  no  more;  I  honor  you 
for  your  sentiments.  You  will  pardon 
my  words,  I  feel  assured." 

"That  is  already  done,"  replied  Percl- 
val, smiling,  "and  now,  since  we  have 
both  talked  ourselves  into  a  proper  de- 
gree of  coolness,  suppose  we  return  to 
the  house." 

E^ith  was  seated  at  the  piano,  singing, 
when  they  entered,  with  De  Lisle  stand- 
ing by  her  side  to  turn  over  the  leaves. 
As  may  be  supposed,  this  sight  did  not 
tend  to  add  to  Fred's  composure;  but 
with  the  determination  of  avoiding  all 
outward  sign  of  annoyance,  he  seated 
himself  by  the  window,  and  listened 
quietly  to  the  sweet  voice  of  the  singer, 
as  she  warbled  the  words  of  an  old 
Scotch   ballad. 

Later  in  the  evening,  when  Edith  bow- 
ed her  good  night  to  him,  he  encountered 
the  eyes  of  De  Lisle  flxed  upon  him, 
with  a  look  of  such  undying  hate,  that 
he  absolutely  started.  The  next  moment 
he  recovered  his  presence  of  mind,  and 
regarding  him  for  a  moment  with  a  coU' 
temptuous  smile,  fair  more  stinging  than 
any  words  could  have  been,  he  passed 
from  the  room. 

Alone  in  the  solitude  of  his  own  cham- 
ber he  strove  to  think  calmly  over  th« 
events  of  the  day.  Calmly!  It  was  hard 
Indeed  to  do  so  with  such  a  fire  burning 
in  his  heart  and  brain.  The  memory 
of  the  hermit's  strange  prediction  kept 
constantly  recurring  to  his  mind,  but 
though  he  thought  until  his  head  grew 
giddy,  he  could  not  imagine  who  that 
strange  being  was.  Then  as  the  other 
events  of  the  evening  passed  one  by  one 
before  him,  he  came  in  due  course  of 
time  to  the  insulting  words  of  De  Lisle, 
and  once  again  his  eye  flashed,  and  his 
chesk  burned,  as  he  trod  fiercely  up  and 
down  the  room. 

And  Edith!  Did  she  love  him?  That 
expressive  glance,  as  they  entered  the 
house,  had  seemed  to  say  so!  If  so, 
would  she  still  fulfil  her  engagement 
with  De  Lisle?  He  dwelt  upon  this  prob- 
lem until  his  brain  was  in  a  whirl,  and 
when  he  at  last  threw  himself  on  the 
bed,  it  was  with  the  intention  of  seeking 
a  Solution  from  herself  the  foiiowing 
day.  " 

As  every  member  of  the  family,  bow- 


Tflt:    VEKiin    OF    tifH    VUFi'tf. 


'anrily,  how- 


ever, was  busy  all  day  in  preparing  for 
the  festivities  of  the  evening,  no  oppor- 
tunities occurred  for  him  to  see  Edith 
alone.  Accordingly,  accepting  Percival's 
invitation,  he  went  out  with  him  to  take 
a  stroll,  only  returning  in  time  to  dress 
for  the  evening. 

When  Fred  entered  the  drawing-room, 
he  found  it  crowded  to  excess.  Owing 
to  the  warmth  of  the  weather,  the  doors 
and  windows  were  all  left  open,  and  the 
cool  night-breeze  came  drifting  In.  laden 
with  the  perfume  of  flowers,  the  glare 
of  the  lighted  rooms  contrasting  pleas- 
antly with  the  calm,  full  moonlight. 
Edith,  robed  In  snowy  white,  was  there, 
looking  lovelier  than  ever.  She  stood  by 
the  open  window,  partly  in  the  shadow, 
her  head  leaning  on  her  hand,  a  sad, 
dreamy  look  on  her  fair  face.  As  Fred 
approached,  she  raised  her  cloudless 
blue  eyes  to  his  face,  and  he  started  to 
see  her  look  exactly  as  she  did  the  day 
he  rescued  her  from  the  burning  ship. 
The  rose-tint  on  her  cheek  deepened  to 
crimson  beneath  his  gaze,  and  with  an 
Inclination  of  her  head,  she  glided  away, 
and  disappeared  amid  the  crowd. 

While  he  stood  looking  after  her,  Nell 
approached,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  De 
Lisle.  Nell  looked  absolutely  beautiful, 
there  was  such  a  d<iep.  living  glow  on 
her  cheeks,  and  such  a  bright,  streaming 
light  in  her  eyes.  Dt  Lisle,  most  ele- 
gantly dressed,  was  also  looking  kllllngly 
handsome,  and  had  evidently  prepared 
himself  to  make  a  deeper  impression 
than  ever   upon   Edith. 

"O  Mr.  Stanley!"  exclaimed  Nell, 
"what  have  you  done  with  Edith?  She 
was  here  a  moment  ago,  with  you." 
There  was  a  wicked  emphasis  on  the 
pronoun.  "Where  is  she  now?  I  want 
her  dreadfully." 

At  sight  of  De  Lisle,  Fred's  face  grew 
cold,  almost  haughty. 

"i  am  sorry  I  cannot  inform  you," 
he  answered  stiffly,  "Miss  Perclval  did 
not   remain  here  a  momci.t." 

"Dear  me!  I  hope  she  did  not  leave 
you  on  our  account,"  said  the  wicked 
Nell,  noticing  with  delight  that  De  Lisle 
was  pale  with  anger  and  jealousy. 
"Come,  Ralph,  we  must  look  for  her. 
Perhaps  you'll  join  us,  Mr.  Stanley." 

"Excuse  me!"  said  Fred,  bowing  cold- 
ly, as  he  turned  on  his  heel  and  left 
them. 

Nell  clapped  her  hands  with  delight. 

"What  a  creature!"  she  exclaimed,  "as 
stiff  and  haughty  as  papa  himself.  Did 
you  ever  see  such  an  iron  face  as  he 
puts  on  when  angry,  and  the  freezing 
tone  in  which  that  'axcuse  me'  was 
said." 

And  Nell  Imitated  his  tone  so  exactly, 
that  anybody  but  De  Lisle  would  have 
laughed. 

"Conceited;   Insufferalale  puppy!"  mut- 


tered the  young  man  between  his  clench'- 
ed   teeth. 

As  Fred  strolled  into  the  dancing  room, 
he  saw  Edith  and  Gus  standing  at  the 
head  of  one  of  the  quadrilles,  and  laugh' 
Ing  and  chatting  gayly  during  the  rests. 
Feeling  in  no  humor  for  dancing  htmself, 
he  wandered  Into  the  music-room,  where 
he  could  catch  glimpses  of  the  gay  danc- 
ers, and  listen  to  the  merry  strains  of 
the   music. 

There  was  a  deep  bay  window  in  the 
music-room,  screened  by  heavy  curtains. 
In  this  recess  there  was  a  lounge.  Fred 
threw  himself  on  it,  and  drc«-  the  cur- 
tains to  screen  himself  from  the  ob- 
servation of  any  stragglers  who  might 
enter. 

Suddenly  the  sound  of  a  familiar  voice 
met  his  ear.  Raising  himself  on  his  el- 
bow, he  glanced  from  his  hiding-place; 
and  beheld  the  well  -  known  features  of 
De  Lisle  apparently  absorbed  in  earnest 
conversation  with  another  man. 

His  companion,  from  soioe  strange, 
unaccountable  cause,  immediately  rivet*- 
ed  the  attention  of  Fred,  as  no  other 
stranger  had  ever  done  before.  Not  that 
there  was  anything  remarkable  about 
him.  He  was  a  man  of  middle  age, 
robust  and  sinewy,  but  not  stout,  and 
dressed  in  the  plain  garb  of  a  civilian  at 
the  day.  His  features  were  bronzed  by 
the  sun,  and  seamed  with  more  wrinkles 
than  his  age  might  seem  to  warrant. 
His  hair  was  grizzled,  and  »?treaked  alter- 
nately with  black  and  gray.  His  eyes, 
small,  sharp,  bright  and  piercing,  were 
set  in  two  deep  caverns,  overhung  by 
thick,  busy  eyebrows,  and  were  ever 
wandering  around,  with  a  quick,  restless 
look  that  seemed  to  take  everything  In 
at  once. 

It  was  impossible  for  Fred  to  leavei 
the  room  without  being  observed,  conse- 
quently he  was  forced  to  remain. 

"I  tell  your'  exclaimed  De  Lisle,  "he 
has  supplanted  me,  any  fool  can  see  that 
tl)e  girl  is  In  love  with  him.  Even  that 
confounded  little  wlll-o'-the-wisp,  her 
sister,  can  jibe  and  mock  me  about  it. 
I  tell  you,  Paul,  the  Infernal  upstart 
shall  repent  It  in  dust  and  ashes.  No' 
man  can  cross  my  path  and  live." 

"Why  do  you  not  tell  Major  Perclval 
he  Is  a  rebel?"  said  his  companion,  "such 
a  stanch  royalist  would  not  harbor 
rebels,  surely." 

"Yes,  he  would,"  said  De  Lisle,  vehe- 
mently, "the  very  demons  themselves 
seem    to   conspire   against    me." 

"Oh,  welK  you  cannot  always  expect 
them  to  stand  your  friends."  said  the' 
man  Paul,  with  something  like  a  sneer;- 
"they  have  been  true  to  you  a  grood 
long  while.  But  were  I  you,  I  would' 
tell    the   major,    anyway." 

"Tell  the  major!  have  I  not  done  so?' 
and  w*hat  was  his  answer?  'Mr.  Stanley 
has  saved  my  daughter's  life  and  Is  nrtw^ 


34 


TEE   SBRMIT   0¥   THE  CLIFFS. 


my.gue^t;  and.  therefore,  no  one  shall 
presunie  to  |n»ult  him  while  he  i«  In 
this  house.'  I  menti^^ned  his  growing  in- 
timacy with  Edith,  and  giving  me  one) 
of  Ws  stern  Joolcs,.  he.  replied,  ,'.Mr.  Stah- 
iey  is  a  gentleman,  and  as  such,  it  will 
b0.  enough  itor  him  to  know  her  hand  is 
already  engaged.'  So  that  was  all  the 
jMitiSfactlon  I  gpt  from  him.  Perdition 
seize  them  all!"  And  he  gnashed  his 
teeth  with  impotent  rage.       r  ■    ,, 

"Take   it    coolly,    my    dear    captain, 
said  his  companion,  quietly;  "no  one  ever 
^qe^  business  by  getting  into  a  passion,  j 
You  hate  this  fellow,  that's  plain  enough; 
and  now,  what:  do  you  propose  to  da?"     ( 
I   "Listen!"   said  De  Lisle,   in  a  tone  of 
concentrated  hatred,   "and  tell  me  if  it  \ 
is  pot  a  glorious  plan.    Hal  liere  comes, 
a  cri>wd  of  fools  from  the  drawingrroom. 
Come   elsewhere    and    I    will    tell    you." 
And  passing   bis  arm   through    that   of 
his   companion,  .the    twain    quitted    the 
music-room.     -    . 

When  they  were  gone,  Fred  arose  on 
his  feet.  What  his  feelings  were  while 
listening  to  the  above  dialogue  may  be 
imagined.  A  profound  contempt  for  De 
Lisle  mastered  every  other  feeling.  He 
had  seen  Intuitively  from  the  first  that 
i^e  was  not  a  man  to  hf,  trusted,  but  he 
had  never  believed  him  capable  of  such 
villainy.  And  this  was  the  man  Edith 
^Percival  was.,  to  mj,arry.  The  thought 
was  maddening!  Fred  trod  up  and  down 
like  a  caged  tiger,  unconscious  that  the 
eyes  of.  many  were  regarding  him  with 
wonder.  Becoming  aware  at  last  of  this, 
he  seized,  his  hat,  and  wandered  out  to 
the  garden.  ,The  calm,  holy  stillness  of 
the  night  soothed  his  excited  feelings. 
The  cool,  pitying  breeze. fanned  his  fever- 
ish brow  as  he  shook  back  the  dark 
locks  that  fell  heavily  over  his  temples. 
Th^  mo<jnlight  lay  sleeping  on  the  earth, 
the  trees  waved  and  mourned  softly  to- 
gether; and,  at  times,  the  shrill  cry 
^f  the  whip-poor-will  and  katydid  would 
conme  floating  to  his  ear,  mingling  with 
the  gay  strains  of  music  that  reached 
htn>,  softened  and  subdued  by  the  dis- 
tance. All  breathed  of  peaee  and  repose, 
aad.  unc^nsoiously  the  calm  of  the  scene 
stole-  into  his  heart,  subduing  its  tuniul- 
iuous  throbbings, 

e^ Scarcely,  knawing  whither  he  went,  he 
atrolled  toward  a  little  arbor  at  the  foot 
of  the  garden,  a  favorite  retreat  of 
]^fth.  He  expected  to  find  it  untenant- 
ed,- but  to  his  surprise  he  beheld  the 
4sllght  figure  of  a  young  girl,  robed  in 
white,  kneeling  on  the  ground,  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands,  her  long,  golden 
hnir  falling  in  a  bright  &hower  over  her 
shoulders.  One  might  almost  fancy  her 
90Tne  pitying  angel  weeping  over  a  fallen 
gwul  as  she  knelt  there  in  the  clesr 
kioonlight.  in  her  snowy  dress,  as  still 
and  niotl<m,Ies8.  as ,  thowgh  t«rped  to 
marble.-'  ■ic-f^'-   ■-■'•'•v-::- 


"Edith!"  said  the  voice  of  him  she.  was 
then  thinking  of,  whose  very  tone  seem- 
ed able  to  recall  her  from  death,  to  life. 

With  a  suppressed,  cry  she  started 
to  her  feet^  and  seemed,  for  a  moment, 
about  to  fly;  but  something  in  the  eye 
of  Fred  restrained  her,  and  she  stood 
silent,  her  bosom  rising  and  falling  with 
powerful  emotion.  ■ 

"Edith,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand, 
which  she  did  not  attempt  to  withdraw, 
"why  are  you  here  alone,  exposed  to 
the  damp  night  air?"  • 

"Because  I  would  be  alpne:  because  1 
am  weary  of  all  this  empty  gayety;  be- 
cause I  am  wretched.  Tl^at  Is,"  she 
added,  coloring  painfully,  and  check- 
ing herself.  "I — I  am"—  She  paused, 
abruptly.  .     , 

"Edith,"  he  began,  hurriedly;  "I  have 
something  to  say  to  you — something  you 
must    hear." 

The  words  were  intended  to  be  spoken 
in  a  tone  of  entreaty,  but  it  partook 
largely   of   command. 

"Oh!  let  me  return,  Mr.  Stanley,"  said 
Edith,  evidently  much  agritated;  "we  will 
be    missed." 

"Edith,  you  must  hear  me  now!"  he 
exclaimed,  vehemently,  a«  she  attempted 
to  withdraw  her  hand.  "I  cannot  suffer 
this  opportunity  to  pass  unimproved,  and 
you  must  listen  to  me.  Edith,  I  love 
you — since  the  first  moment  I  saw  you  I 
have  loved  you,  and  even  though  you 
be  the  betrothed  of  another,  I  cannot 
but  love  you  still.  You  are  the  first  to 
whom  these  lips  ever  made  such  an 
avowal,  and  though  you  may  think  me 
bold  and  presumptuous,  I  can  no  longer 
remain  silent.  Tell  me,  dearest,  have  I 
loved  in  vain?  If  so,  we  will  never  meet 
more.  Edith!  Edith!  dearer  than  life, 
answer  me!" 

There  was  no  reply.  With  her  face 
hidden  in  her  hands,  she  was  sobbing 
convulsively, 

"I  am  answered,"  said  Fred,  huskily. 
"Edith,  farewell!  May  you  be  as  happy 
with  the  husband  of  your  choice  as'  I 
would  have  striven  to  render  you." 

He  turned  to  go.  Edith  raised  Wer 
head,  and  saw  in  the  wan  moonlight  the 
deadly   paleness   of  his  face. 

"Mr.  Stanley^Frederlc!"  she  said, 
faintly. 

tn  a  moment  he  was  again  by  her  side, 
looking  down  into  the  fair  face,  veiled 
by  the  long,   golden  hair." 
I     "Dearest  Edith,"  he  said,  eagerly,  "may 
I  hope"— 

i  "No!  no!  hope  for  nothing!"  she  iriter- 
:  rupted,  "but  I  feared  you  ^ere  offended. 
\0,  Mr.  Stanley,  you  do  not  jrnow  how 
j  utterly,  miserable  I  am!"  ' 
I  "And  why,  fairest  lady?"  he  said,  al- 
most coldly;  "since  ymi  lovfe  Mr.  pe 
'Liifile.  methinks  ybu  Should  be  hajapy.^V 
I     "I  do  not  love  htm— I  donot  6are  lor 


THE   BBRUIT   OF   TBB   OLIFFB. 


35 


hjtn!"  >she    said,    earnestly;    "It    is    not 
that."  !      '   "      '        '  ■ 

.  "And  what,  then,,  is  it?"  Conftde  in 
me,  dearest.  Is  It  even  as  I  have  been 
rash    enau^h    to    hope?    Dearest    Bdith, 

■  *lo .  you  Indeed  Iqve  me?"_ 

■  :  *'I  do!"  she  aald.  faintly,  as  her  head 
dropped  on  his  shoulder.  "But  why  do 
I  say  so?"  she  exclaimed,  starting:  up — 
"I,  who  am  to  be  the  wife  of  another!" 

"Edith!  Edith!  will  you  marry  a  man 
you  do  not  love?" 

"I  must!"  she  replied,  dejectedly;  "T 
dare  not  refuse — my  father  has  set  hia 
heart  on  this  union.  O  B'rederie!  would 
we  had  never  met!" 

"It  would,  indeed,  have  been  better, 
Edith.  Blit  would  it  not  be  wiser  to 
brave  the  anger  of  a  parent  than  to  be 
made    miserable    for    life    by    marrying 

•one  you  dislike?" 

"Oh!  I" know  not  what  to  do!"  said 
Edithi   wringing   her  hands. 

"Let  me  advise  you,  dearest  Edith," 
said  Predj  earnestly.  "Refuse,  firmly,  to 
marry  De  Lisle;  your  father  will  not 
compel  you  to  do  so,  Believ  me,  it  is 
from  no  selfish  motive  I  uvy,i  you  tc  do 
this.  You  and  I,  dear  Edith,  are  doomed 
to  part.  But  it  would  be  a  crime— a  per- 
jury, .to  go  before  God's  holy  altar  and 
vow  to  love,  honor,  and  obey  a  man  you 
detest." 

,  "But  my  father?  O,  Mr.  Stanley,  you 
do  not  know  how  terrible  his  wrath  is!" 
said  Edltb,  wildly. 

"Better  to  brave  his  wrath,  Edith,  than 
Bender  yourself  forever  wretched.  De 
Liisle  is  ot  worthy  of  you;  ?et  me  advise 
you  as    a   brother,    to    rejeoc   him!" 

Edith  dropped  her  head,  and  for  a 
moment  seemed  lost  in  thought.  Then 
raising  it,  she  said,  firmly: 

"With  heaven's  blessing,  Frederic,  I 
.,wilt  do  so.  I  feel  it  would  be  wrong  to 
marry  him;  but  his  anger  and  my  fath- 
er's will  be  fearful.  And  you!' —  she 
addied,  looking  anxiously  up  into  the  face 
bending  over  her. 

'  ■  "I  shall  leave  to-morrow,"  he  replied, 
speaking  calmly,  by  an  effort,  "happy 
in-  knowing  I  am  beloved,  though  we 
niay  never  meet  again." 

She  looked  down  with  a  shudder. 

"rt'is  so  cold,"  she  said,  absently,  "let 
us'  return. 

He  drew  her  a.rm  within  bis,  and 
turned  slowly  toward  the  house.  When 
they  disappeared .  the  figure  of  a  man 
arose  from  where  it  had  been  prouehing 
behirnd  some  lo^  tushes,  hearing  every 
worcj..^  «J  ■  "^    ,  .  ■  . 

•  It  Tfra«.Ji>e  Lie^lel.and  as  the  rnQonllKht 
fell  upon  it,  his  face,  were  th^  took  of  ^ 
,a  .•dscnoii*.^,;,-:^-, .  :  .:,:rr-  ;.■■'■  '■■'••.■    .■:,■-••.. 


'  •  GH AFTER  IX. 

DOOMBD.  ',    . 

■    -  ■  ■        '  *  '  '  I 

"Go,  some  of  you,  crV  a  reprieve." 

—Beggar's  Opera.  - 

NiQHT  had  settled  ovor  the  earth,  fiarlt, 
chilly  and  starless.  A  thick,  drlzallhg 
rain  was  falling,  while  the  storm-clouds 
chased  one-  another  over  the  sky. 

In  a  narrow,  gloomy  cell,  cold  and  flre- 
less,  sat  Fred  Stanley.  It  was  a  poor 
place  for  such  an  occupant-runfurnished 
save  by  a  wooden  bench  and  a  rude  cot 
on  which  lay  a  mattress,  covered  by  .'a 
(roarse  blanket,  so  filthy  that  he  shrank 
from  it  in  disgust.  *•,.'. 

When  Fred  quitted  the  residence  of 
Major  Percival  he  joined  the  American 
army,  where  his  bravery  soon  won  for 
him  promotion.  

Being  caught  hovering  around  the 
English  outposts  with  a  number  of  his 
men,  he  was  imprisoned,  tried  by  court 
martial,  and  condemned  to-  be  shot  as  a 
traitor  and  a  spy.  It  was  not  death  that 
could  subdue  the  proud  spirit  of  Fred 
Stanley,  but,  oh!  fearful  to  think  of,  his 
father  had  been  his  Judge;  it  was  his 
lips  that  had  pronounced  his  death-war- 
rant. 

?Ie  sat  on  the  rude  bench,  his  arms 
folded  across  his  breast,  his  lips  com- 
pressed, his  neglected  locks  fallen  dark- 
ly over  his  face.  It  Was  his  last  night 
on  earth.  Ere  the  sun  rose  again  he 
Avonld  be  in  eternity. 

He  thought  of  Edith,  and  wondered 
vaguely  if  she  would  grieve  to  leairn  his 
fate;  then  of  her  stern  father,  compell- 
ing her  to  be  the  wife  of  De  Lisle— un- 
til, almost  maddened,  he  sp>rang  to  his 
feet,  and  paced  up  and  down,  with 
clenched  hands  and  flashing  eyes. 

It  Avas  hard  to  die,  too,  so  young,  with 
such  a  glorious  career  opening  before 
him,  to  leave  the  beautiful  \yorld  that 
had  never  seemed  half  so  fair  to  him 
before.  He  thought  of  his  father's  hit- 
ter words  at  their  stormy  interview, 
with  ^  vague  feeling  of  wonder  that  they 
had  come  true  so  soortj  And  then  fol- 
lowed a  feeling  of  utter  desalatlon-^^he 
was  deserted  by  all.  Without,  a  friend -qn 
earth,  doomed  to  die  an  ignominious 
death  in  the  flower  of  his  youth.  He 
strove  to  pray,  but  his  brain  was  like  a 
seething  cauldron,  through  which  mad- 
dening thoughts  leaped  in  wild  chaos. 
Even  "God  have  mercy"  seemed  glued 
to  his  lips.  '  ; : 

Suddenly  the  grating  npiise  of  the  key 
turning  in  the  rjisty  lock  arrested  i^is 
attention.  The  jailer  entered,  bearlns 
a  lantern,  foljowed  by  a  tall  fl$iire 
wmpped  in  a  clpak.^.  Setting  down  the 
light  tlie  man  departed,  and  Fred  was 
alone  with  ,t||e "tftranger.  ."'":"J.. 

..l*Stanley, ,  my.   dear    fiellow!"    h^    eit- 


I 


96 


THE    H^RSttT   OF    THB    OLlFFh. 


r-ieHmed,  in  a  choking  voice,  as  the  cloak 
fell  off,  disclosing  the  pale  fea;tures  of 
Nugent  P"^rcival. 

"PeK;lvfel,  is  it  you?  This  is  indeed 
kind!"  said  Fred,  grasping  his  hand. 

'I  only  learned  about  an  hour  ago  of 
this,"  said  Percival,  "and  came  here  im- 
mediately. I  had  considerable  dlfflculty 
in  persuading  them  to  allow  me  to  see 
you.  They  seem  particularly  afraid  lest 
vou   should  escape." 

"Escape?"  repeated  Fred,  bitterly, 
•thev  need  not  alarm  themselves.  There 
la  nothing  further  from  my  thoughts  at 
present." 

"Would  to  Heaven,  my  dear  friend,  I 
could  aid  you!"  exclaimed  Percival,  in  a 
voice  husky  from  deep  emotion.  "This 
affair  is  terrible,  monstrous,  unnatural. 
Thev  tell  me  Sir  William  sat  as  judge?" 

•He  did,"  replied  Fred,  with  stern 
fierceness,  "and  most  coolly  and  deliber- 
ately condemned  me  to  death.  He  told 
me  before  he  would  do  so,  but;  1  little 
dreamed  how  soon  his  words  were  to 
come  true.  The  only  thing  he  seemed  to 
hesitate  in  was,  whether  his  rebel  son 
should  die  by  the  rope  or  the  musket. 
Some  of  my  former  friends  (the  words 
were  pronounced  with  a  withering  sneer) 
persuaded  him  to  let  me  suffer  by  the 
latter,  as  the  more  honorable.  Have  I 
not  reason  to  be  grateful  for  such  con- 
descension?" 

He  laughed  mockingly.  It  sounded  bo 
wild,  so  strange,  so  unnatural,  that  Per- 
cival shuddered. 

"It  is  terrible!"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"Has  he  the  heart  of  a  man,  to  condemn 
his  own  son  to  death?  It  cannot  be,  it 
must  not  be.  Fr^d,  he  will  relent— you 
will  be  pardoned;  you  need  not  fear 
■  death." 

Fred  started,  raised  his  head,  and, 
flinging  back  his  dark  hair,  exclaimed 
tiercely: 

'Fear,  did  you  say?  I  do  not  fear 
death!  I  can  walk  to  the  muzzles  of 
their  muskets  without  my  heart  beating 
one  throb  faster.  Fear!"  His  lip  curled 
scornfully 

"But  you  do  not  wish  to  die  such  a 
disgraceful  death.  It  would  be  an  honor 
to  fall  hghting  for  one's  country;  but 
this,  the  doom  of  a  traitor!  Who  could 
think  of  such  a  fate  calmly?  It  might 
well  make  the  bravest  heart  quail." 

"Poor  comfort,  my  dear  Percival!" 
said  Fred,  one  of  those  rare  smiles,  that 
his  face  seldom  wore  of  late,  lighting  up 
his  handsome  countenance.  "Surprising 
as  it  may  seem,  your  words  do  not  tend 
to  cheer  me  in  the  least." 

"Fred,  you  shall  not  perish  now,  if  I 
have  to  intercede  for  your  pardon  on 
my  knees!"  exclaimed  Percival,  hurried 
a\^•ay  by  his  impetuous  feelings.  "I  will 
go  to  Sir  William  and  plead  for  your 
life!" 

"Percival.    if   you   wish   me    to   regard 


ydu  as  my  friend,  never  utter  such  words 
again!"  said  Fred,  sternly.  "Do  you 
think  I  would  accept  the  poor  boon  of 
life  on  such  degradinig  terms?  No,  my 
deaf  friend.  I  thank  you  for  ypur  zeal 
in  my  behalf;  but  think  no  more  of  par- 
don for  me.  My  hours  are  numbered.  I 
shall  never  live  to  see  the  sUn  rise 
again." 

Percival  strove  to  speak;  but  a  chok- 
ing sensation  rose  in  his  throat,  and 
kept  him  silent.  Fred  paced  up  and 
down,  after  his  custom  when  excited. 
At  last,  stopping  suddenly  before  Perci- 
val, who  sat  with  his  face  shaded  by 
his  hand,  he  dashed  his  heavy  locks 
back  from  his  temples,  and  said,  in  a 
voice  quick  and  excited:  ' 

"There  Is  one  thing  you  can  do  foi- 
me— it  is  the  last  favor  I  will  ask  oi» 
earth  from  any  one.  Tell  your  sister- 
tell  Edith,  I  loved  her  to  the  last,  and 
ask  her  to  think  of  me  sometimes  wh<  n 
1  am  dead.  Tell  her  to  think  of  what 
we  spoke  of  last.  She  will  understand 
what  I  mean,  and  will  then  believe  no 
selfish  motive  prompted  me;  for  by  that 
time  I  shall  be  beyond  feeling  any  earth- 
ly pain." 

"Time's  VD,  sir,"  said  the  jailer,  sharp- 
ly, shoving  his  head  through  tlie  half- 
opened  doov, 

"Good-by,  then,  my  dear  Percival." 
said  Fred,  grasping  his  hand — "we  part 
for  the  last  time!     God  bless  you!" 

A  convulsive  pressure  of  his  hand  was 
the  only  reply,  as  Percival  turned  asidt- 
his  head  to  hide  the  emotion  he  could 
not  suppress.  Not  trusting  his  voice  to 
speak,  he  pulled  his  hat  down  over  his 
eyes  and  quitted  the  cell,  followed  by  the 
turnkey. 

Striding  through  the  streets  as  though 
shod  with  the  famous  seven-league 
boots,  Nugent  Percival  stopped  not  until 
he  reached  the  hotel  where  he  and  his 
father  resided  during  their  temporary, 
stay  from  home. 

Major  Percival  was  seated  in  stately 
dignity,  looking  over  a  formidable  pile 
of  letters  and  accounts.  He  started  back 
in  surprise  and  consternation  as  his  son*, 
pale,  wild  and  excited,  burst  into  the 
room  and  stood  before  him. 

"Father!"  he  exclaimed,  impetuously. 
—"Fred  Stanley  saved  your  daughter's 
life.  It  is  now  in  your  power  to  return; 
the   obligation    by    saving    his." 

"Save  his   life!     What   do   you   mean, 
sir?"  demanded  his  father,  amazed  and, 
angry  at  this  abrupt  address.  , 

"I  mean  that  Fred  Stanley  is  in  prisoa; 
condemned  to  be  shot  to-morrow,  and 
it  is  in  your  power  to  save  him!"  ex- 
claimed  his  son  with  still  increasing  ex- 
citement. 

"Shot    to-morrow!"    exclaimed    Major. 
Percival.    "Good  heavens!    What  has  he 
►done?" 

"He  joined  the  American  cause,  as  you 


pa* 
lej 

in{ 

foi 

it 
i*ei 

th€ 


soi 


cr£ 


xni 


nW5    BMRMTT   OF    TSE    OllFFB. 


27 


use,  as  you 


know,  and  has  b<en  arrested  and  con- 
demned as  a  spy,"  was  the  reply. 

"Sorry  to  hear  It— sorry  to  hear  It!" 
said  the  major,  shaking  his  head.  "Stan- 
ley wj^s  a, fine  fellow,  but  I  can  do  noth- 
ing for  him.    He  deserves  his  fate!" 

"And  is  this  your  gratitude  to  him 
for  saving  Edith's  life?"  said  Percival, 
with  flasrhinK  eyes. 

"But  what  can  I  do,  sir?  I  told  you 
it  was  not  in  my  power  to  help  him," 
i-oplied  his  father,  iii  rising  anger. 

"You  can  help  hirn,  sir.  Are  you  not 
the  intimate  friend  of  his  father?" 

"Well,  and  if  I  am?" 

"Then  go  to  him  and  plead  for  his 
son's  life." 

"Plead  for  his  son's  life!  Are  you 
crazy.  Nugent?  Doubtless  all  the  in- 
iluence  Sir  William  possessed  has  been 
tried  for,  his  pardon  before  this." 

"I  tell  you,  father,  it  is  Sir  William 
him-s^l*  who  has  condemned  Fred  to 
death!",  exclaimed  Percival,  vehemently. 

"What!"  gasped  Major  Percival,  start- 
ing, back  in  horror— "condemned  his  own 
pon?    Impossible!" 

"He  has  done  so,  horrible  as  it  seems. 
Father,  you  will  go  to  him  and  plead  for 
a  reprieve?" 

"In.  such  a  case  1  certainly  will.  I'll 
go  Instantly!  Who  ever  heard  of  such 
a  thing?  It  absolutely  makes  one's  blood 
run  cold!     He  must  pardon  him!" 

Sir  William  Stanley  sat  by  the  open 
window  of  his  room,  his  head  leaning  on 
his  hand,  his  brows  knit  as  though  in 
pain.  .The  raw  wind  and  chill  rain  beat 
unheeded  on  his  bare  head — a  few  hours 
seemed  to  have  turned  him  into  an  old 
man. 

He  was  thinking  of  his  son,  alone  in 
his  cold,  gloomy  cell — the  last  heir  of 
his  proud  house  condemned  to  die  a 
traitor's  ignominious  death  on  the  mor- 
row! It  was  his  own  lips  that  had  pro- 
nounced his  doom,  and  though  his  sor- 
row and  anguish  were  intense,  those 
words  should  never  be  recalled, 
.  Sir  William  was  neither  hgird-hearted 
nor  unnatural.  That  his  son  was  a  spy, 
and  as  such  deserved  death,  was  his 
conviction.  He  would  not  have  con- 
demned him  unjustly;  but  having  once 
found  him  guilty  nothing  could  save 
him.  Duty  was  the  ruling  principle  of 
Sir  William  Stanley's  life.  It  amounted 
almost  to  a  monomania  with  him.  Once 
convinced  of  what  he  considered  his 
duty,  no  human  consideration  could  in- 
duce him  to  swerve  from  it. 

.Therefore,  he  sat  by  the  window,  a 
hoioaved,  broken-hearted  old  man,  be- 
reaved by  h,is  own  act.  His  affection  for 
Frederic  had  never  been  very  strong, 
but  be  was  his  son,  after  all;  and  now 
that  he  was  about  to  lose  hina,  he  had 
n^ver  seemed  BO  dear  before,     A  thou- 


fjand  renjcmbranoes  of  himi,  that  he  had 


long  forgotten,  again  ru0h«d  to  his  mind. 
He  remembered  him  a  wild,  imp«ti»ouB. 
handsome  boy,  ever  rash,  sometimes 
wayward^  often  fiery  and  head«trong, 
l/Ut  always  generous.  Then,,  too,  with 
him  would  perish  the  last  scion  of  his 
ancient  family— the  disgrace  of  his 
shameful  death  would  ever  cling  to  him- 
self; and  Sir  William  bowed  his  face 
in  his  hands  and  groaned  aloud. 

Suddenly,  a  servant  entered,  and  an- . 
nounced  that  Major  Percival  was  below 
and  desired  to  see  him. 
_  Sir  William  was  in  no  humor  to  see 
visitors,  but  he  could  not  refuse  his  old 
friend;  so.  composing  his  face  until  it 
assumed  an  expression  of  rigid  firmness, 
he  bade  the  servant  show  him  up. 

When  the  major  "ntered  the  room,  Sir 
Willipm  advanc  ..o  meet  him  with  ex- 
tended hand,  his  fact-  looking  as  if  it 
were  made  of  cast  iron,  so  stern  and 
•hard  was  it. 

"To  what  am  I  indebted  for  the  honor 
of  this  visit,  major?"  was  his  very  un- 
usual   mode  of  addressing  his  friend, 

"To  a  very  unhappy  circumstance,  Sir 
William!"   was  the  reply.     "I  allude  to 
that  affair  of  your  son's." 
Sir  William's  brow  grew  dark. 
"Proceed!"  he  said,  stiffly. 
"I  hear  that  you  have  condemned  him 
to   be  shot  as   a  spy!"   said   the   major, 
nettled  at  the  baronet's  tone;. "it  is  Im- 
possible, sir,  you  can  have  done  so  mon- 
strous an  act." 

"Not  at  all  impossible,  Major  Perci- 
val!" said  Sir  William,  coldly.  "I  have 
condemned  him  to  death." 

"But  you  cannot  mean  to  execute  such 
a  sentence.  Good  heavens,  sir,  you  will 
not  become  the  murderer  of.  your  own 
son!"  exclaimed  Major  Percival,  in  a 
tone  of  horror. 

"Major  Percival,  the  young  man  is 
guilty'  His  is  a  double  crime— he  is  a 
spy  and  a  traitor.  Sir,  he  deserves 
death!"  said  Sir  W^illiam,  with  stately 
dignity. 
"He  is  none  the  less  your  son!" 
"Were  he  my  father,  sir,  he  should 
die!" 

"Sir    William    Stanley,    have   you^   the 
heart  of  a  fiend?    Will  you  be  barbarous, 
inhuman  enough  to  conden^n  your  only 
son  to  a  disgraceful  death?    Zounds!  sir! 
the  very  brutes  of  the  forest  would  not 
be  guilty  of  such  a  deed!" 
"Sir,  I  trust  I  know  my  duty!" 
"Duty!"   exclaimed  the  passionate  old 
man,    "I   tell    you.   Sir  William   Stanley, 
that   sort   of  cant  is   ridiculous!     Duty, 
forsooth!    As  if  it  were  a.  man's  duty  to 
commit  a  civil  murder — for  it  is  murder, 
say   what   yoii   will— because  you   fancy 
him  a  spj{.     I  tell  you,  sir,  if  you  slay 
you  own  son,  his  blood  will  cry  out  from 
the   earth    for   vengeance   on    his    mur- 
derer!" 
Major   Percival   sprang   froni  hfs  seat, 


28 


THE    HERMIT   OF   THE   CLIFFS. 


II 


I     ail 


f 


and  stood  gesticulating,  flushed,  excited, 
flery.  »iefore  Sir  William.  The  baronet's 
face  seemed  to  be  made  of  marble,  for, 
though  he  rose  to  his  feet,  it  was  as 
oalm  and  Immovable  as  iron.  There  was 
something  In  that  stem,  still  look  that 
awed  and  subdued  the  fiery  wrath  of  his 
more  excitable  companion. 

"Major  Percival,"  he  said,  and  his 
voice  sounded  strangely  impressive  in 
its  deep  calmness,  "I  have  listened  to 
your  words,  and  I  forgive  your  Insults, 
though,  should  they  be  repeated,  my  ser- 
vants shall  show  you  out.  And  now,  sii:, 
hear  me:  as  well  might  you  talk  to  this 
table,  with  the  hope  of  winning  it  to 
answer  you,  as  to  plead  for  forgiveness 
for  him.  To-morrow,  by  dawn,  he  dies, 
and  no  power  under  heaven  can  save  his 
life.    You  have  my  answer,  sir." 

He  paused.  His  cold,  impressive  voice 
had  stilled  the  excited  feelings  of  the 
major.  He  felt  his  words  were  111- 
chosen,  and,  with  the  determination  of 
being  more  careful,  he  resolved  to  try 
again. 

"Sir  William,"  he  began,  "we  are  old 
friends,  and  I  feel  you  will  pardon  words 
uttered  in  the  heat  of  anger.  I  feel  an 
interest,  nay,  an  affection  for  your  son; 
he  saved  my  daughter's  life  at  the  risk 
of  his  own,  and  it  is  but  natural  I  should 
plead  for  him." 

A  stiff  bow  and  cold  silence  were  his 
sole  reply. 

"Once  again,  then,"  continued  the 
major,  "I  implore  you  to  .  retract  this 
sentence.  Think  of  the  long,  cheerless 
old  age  before  you,  without  the  strong 
arm  of  a  son  to  lean  upon,  without  a 
relatiVB  on  earth  to  close  your  eyes.  For 
his  dead  mother's  sake,  sir,  spare  your 
son's  life!" 

A  sudden  start  followed  the  abrupt 
words,  and  a  spasm  of  Intense  agony 
passed  over  the  face  of  the  baronet.  The 
major  noticed  it,  and  continued: 

"You  will  pardon  him,  I  am  sure;  your 
heart  is  not  made  of  iron.  For  your  own 
sake,  my  old  friend,  grant  me  this  boon." 

"Enough,  sir!"  Interrupted  the  bar- 
onet, around  whose  mouth  a  look  of  im- 
movable sternness  had  settled;  "I  will 
hear  no  more;  you  plead  in  vain.  I  know 
my  duty,  Major  Percival.  Frederic  Stan- 
ley has  been  tried,  and  found  guilty;  and 
ere  the  sun  rises  to-morrow  he  shall 
die!" 

There  was  an  almost  passionate  sol- 
enmity  in  his  tone.  He  looked  as  some 
Spartan  hero  of  old  might  have  d"one 
when  about  to  sacrifice  what  was  dear- 
est to  him  on  earth. 

"Then,  Sir  William  Stanley,"  said  Ma- 
jor Percival.  growing  absolutely  white 
with  anger,  "our  friendship  is  forever  at 
an  end." 

"As  you  please,  sir,"  replied  the  bar- 
onet, with  a  stiff  bow. 

"Now*,     mark     my     words,     unfeeling 


man!"  said  the  major,  with  a  solemnity 
almost  equal  to  his  own,  "If  you  slay 
your  own  son  you  will  repent  it  in  dust 
and  ashes.  A  miserable  old  age  will  be 
yours — shunned  by  men,  and  accursed 
by  God4<' 

"Go'"  said  the  baronet,  white  and 
choked  with  rage,  as  he  held  the  door 
open  and  pointed  out. 

And,  without  a  word,  Major  Percival 
took  his  hat  and  left  the  house. 

The  chill,  gray  dawn  of  the  morning 
looked  with  its  pale,  wan  face  on  many 
scenes. 

It  beheld  Edith  Percival,  after  a  rest- 
less night,  kneeling  with  clasped  hands 
by  the  window,  praying  for  strength, 
and  thinking  of  one  now  dearer  than  life 
Itself.  It  saw  Sir  William  Stanley,  cow- 
ering in  his  room,  white  and  ghastly, 
with  an  awful  look  of  fixed,  settled  de- 
spair in  his  stony  eyes,  shrinking  in 
horror  as  the  moments  flew  hy,  bring- 
ing the  dreaded  hour  nearer  and  nearer. 
It  looked  through  the  little  grating,  with 
its  sad,  pitiful  eyes,  into  the  lonely  cell 
in  which  Fred  Stanley  was  confined.  He 
lay  on  the  rude  cot  in  a  deep  sleep — .so 
still,  so  dreamless,  that  but  for  the  deep, 
regular  breathing,  one  might  mistake  it 
for  death.  His  long,  luxuriant  locks  fell 
darkly  over  his  white  brow,  saddening 
the  still,  marble-like  face.  His  was 
the  profound  slumber  that  follows  strong 
excitement  of  any  kind,  and  he  looked  so 
calm,  so  tranquil,  that  even  the 
jailer  shrank  from  awakening  him,  with 
a  feeling  akin  to  pity  for  his  youth  and 
sad  fate. 

But  the  noise  of  the  creaking  door 
aroused  him.  Starting  up,  he  looked 
around  him  with  a  bewildered  air.  The 
narrow  cell,  that  grated  window,  the 
hard-looking  jailer,  too  soon  brought 
memory  back.  He  had  slept  for  the  last 
time.  For  a  moment  his  face  flushed 
deep  crimson,  then  the  blood  retreated 
to  his  heart,  leaving  him  paler  than  be- 
fore. 

"Why  do  you  wait?"  he  demanded, 
turning  to  the  jailer;  "I  am  ready." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke.  Sev- 
eral men  entered  the  cell;  but  he  scarce- 
ly noticed  them,  as,  murmuring  a  silent 
prayer  for  mercy,  he  proceeded  to  the 
courtyard. 

Several  soldiers  with  fixed  muskets 
stood  ready.  At  a  little  distance  was  Sir 
William  Stanley;  and  no  one,  to  look  at 
his  pale,  but  rigidly  calm  face,  could 
dream  of  the  Intense  anguish  he  en- 
dured. 

A  man  advanced  with  a  handkerchief, 
but,  waving  him  back  with  an  air  of 
oalm  command,  Fred  said: 

"Stand  aside!  I  will  not  have  my  eyes 
bound." 

"It  matters  not!"  said  Sir  William, 
seeing  the  man  hesitated.    Then,  turning 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    CLIFFS. 


39 


to  the  soldiere,  he  said:  "When  I  give 
the  word  you  will"— 

He  paused.  With  all  his  firm  self- 
rommand,  he  could  not  finish  the  sen- 
tonc-e. 

"Kneel!"  he  said,  turning  sternly  to 
Fred,  but  his  face  was  like  that  of  a 
forKse. 

"Now,"  he  added,  turning  to  the  oth- 
ers, and  raising  his  arm,  "fi"— 

"Hold!"  cried  a  voice,  so  deep,  so  sep- 
ulchral, that  every  one  started;  and  the 
n^xt  moment  the  Hermit  of  the  Cliffs 
stood   before  them. 


lave  my  eyes 


CHAPTER  X. 

MAJOR    PERCIVAL    IN    A    "STATE    OF    MIND." 

Ah  me!  for  aught  that  I  could  ever  read, 
Could  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history. 
The    course    of    true    love    never     did     run 
smooth." 

—Shakespeare. 

There  was  a  moment's  profound  sl- 
Ifnce.  and  the  group  standing  In  the 
rourtyard.  in  the  gray  dawn  of  the 
morning,  might  have  formed  a-  subject 
for  a  painter. 

The  soldiers.  In  a  row,  with  gleaming 
muskets,  presented,  now  motionless  In 
i^urprise.  Fred,  still  kneeling  In  momen- 
tary expectation  of  death— Sir  William 
Stanley,  transfixed  with  amazement, 
staring  at  the  newcomer— and  the  her- 
mit himself  looking  exactly  the  same  as 
when  Fred  and  Edith  had  met  him  on 
the  cliffs. 

"Who  are  you,  sirrah?"  demanded  Sir 
William,  who  was  the  first  to  recover 
his  presence  of  mind. 

"No  friend  of  yours.  Sir  William  Stan- 
ley," replied  the  deep  tones  of  the  her- 
mit. 

"And  how  dare  you  venture  here,  man 
or  madman,  or  whatever  you  may  be?** 
cried  the  baronet,  fiercely.  "Away  with 
you,  or  you  shall  repent  this  intrusion." 

"Not  at  thy  command  will  I  go,"  re- 
plied the  hermit,  loftily.  "No  man  on 
earth  can  make  me  do  otherwise  than 
as  I  please." 

"Then,  by  all  the  fiends  In  flames,  I 
will  make  you  do  otherwise,"  shouted 
the  enraged  baronet.  "Here,  some  of 
you  arrest  this  hoary  dotard,  until  we 
teach  him  that  our  commands  are  not 
to  be  disobeyed  with  Impunity." 

"Back!"  cried  the  hermit,  waving  his 
hand  majestically.  "Touch  me  not  at 
your  peril." 

"Who  is  this  old  fool?"  asked  Sir  Will- 
iam, angrily. 

"One  you  have  reason  to  fear,  proud 
man,"  replied  the  calm  voice  of  the  her- 
mit. 

"Now,  by  heaven!  this  is  too  much!" 
exclaimed  the  baronet,  fiercely.  "What! 
have  you  all  turned  cowards,  that  no 
one  dares  raise  a  finger  against  this  gray 


lunatic?  Be  off,  old  man;  I  do  not 
v'lsh  to  harm  you.    Do  you  hear?" 

"On  one  condition,  only,  will  I  go,"  re- 
plied the  hermit,  folding  his  arms,  and 
gazing  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  the  an- 
gry baronet. 

"Must  I,  then,  make  conditions  with 
you?"  said  Sir  William,  sarcastically. 
"Pray,  name  it,  most  venerable  father!" 

"That  you  allow  yonder  kneeling 
youth  to  go  forth  free,"  was  the  calm 
reply. 

For  a  moment  Sir  William's  face  grew 
absolutely  black  with  rage.  He  stood 
quivering,  speechless  with  suppressed 
passion. 

"Nay,  Sir  William,"  said  the  old  man, 
in  a  tone  of  conscious  power.  "There 
is  no  need  to  look  so  enraged.  I  can 
make  you  do  It." 

He  walked  over,  as  he  spoke,  to  where 
the  baronet  stood,  and  whispered  a  few 
words  In  his  ear.  The  effect  was  ap- 
palling. Sir  William  staggered  back, 
with  ghastly  face  and  straining  eyeballs, 
then,  with  one  wlid  cry:  "Oh,  great 
Heaven!"  the  strong  man  fell  stricken  to 
the   ground. 

All  were  bewildered,  amazed,  terrified! 
Several  rushed  forward  to  raise  the 
prostrate  man,  while  the  others  sur- 
rounded Fred  who  had  risen  to  his  feet, 
under  the  vague  impression  that  he  was 
in  some  way  about  to  escape.  The  her- 
mit, as  he  passed  him,  whispered:  "Fear 
not,  you  are  safe!"  And  a  moment  after 
he  was  gone. 

Fred  was  reconducted  back  to  prison 
like  one  in  a  dream.  What  strange,  mys- 
terious power  did  this  singular  old  man 
possess?  He  knew  all  the  events  of 
Fred's  past  life,  seemingly,  as  well  as 
he  did  himself;  and  in  a  few  words  had 
produced  an  effect  upon  Sir  William 
Stanley  such  as  no  human  being  had 
ever  done  before.  He  could  not  account 
for  it. 

It  seemed  to  Fred  that  that  day  would 
never  come  to  an  end.  He  paced  up  and 
down  his  narrow  precincts  until  he  was 
tired,  and  then  threw  himself  on  the 
wooden  bench,  forced  to  resign  himself 
to  the  prospect  of  remaining  another 
night  in  his  dreary  cell.  He  shortly 
afterward  heard  the  key  turning  in  the 
lock;  and  the  next  moment  a  tall,  muf- 
fled figure  stood  in  the  doorway. 

"Come  with  me,"  said  a  deep  voice, 
that  Fred  easily  recognized  as  his 
father's. 

The  young  man  arose  and  followed  him 
through  a  long,  dark  corridor,  uniil  they 
reached  the  courtyard.  Fred  glanced 
around  at  it  with  a  shudder. 

"Go,  you  are  free,  said  his  conductor. 
And  Fred  noticed  now  for  the  first  time 
how  hoarse  and  unnatural  was  his 
voice.  "Beware  how  you  fall  Into  my 
hands  again!    Go!" 

Mechanically  the  young  man  obeyed; 


II 


30 


THE    HERMIT   OF   THE    CLIFFS 


'  "%M 


i 


and  he  found  himself  In  the  street  like 
one  who  walks  in  his  sleep,  half  tempt- 
ed to  !>eHftve  the  events  of  the  past  tew 
days  were  nothing  tout  a  dream. 

His  first  thought  was  whither  he 
should  direct  his  steps.  He  did  not 
Icnow  where  Nugent  Pereival  was  stop- 
ping, or  he  might  have  sought  him  out. 
And  by  ^  very  natural  transition,  while 
thlnklr.g  of  the  brother,  the  thoughts 
wandered  to  the  sister,  and  he  was  Just 
falling  into  a  delightful  day-dream  of 
going  to  housekeeping  with  Edith,  when 
a  slap  on  the  shoulder  startled  him,  and, 
looking  up,  he  saw  a  man  by  his  side 
wrapped  in  a  long,  dark  cloak. 

"Whither  now,  Frederic  Stanley?"  said 
the  well-known  voice  of  the  hermit. 

"Oh,  is  it  you?"  said  Fred,  a  little 
surprised  by  his  sudden  appearance. 
"This  meeting  is  most  fortunate.  Sir,  I 
owe  you  my  lifb." 

"I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  the  her- 
mit, quietly. 

"IIow  can  I  siiow  you  my  gratitude  for 
what  you  have  done?    Believe  me,  I  am 
.  not    insensible    to    the    great    obligation 
under  which  you  have  laid  me." 

"Cease  your  thanks,  young  man,"  in- 
terrupted the  hermit,  in  a  tone  of  slight 
impatience.  "The  only  return  I  ask  is, 
that  you  will  In  all  things  be  guided  by 
my  counsels.  Nay,''  he  added,  seeing  an 
irresolute  expression  on  Fred's  face, 
"believe  me,  I  will  ask  you  to  do  nothing 
inconsistent  with  your  duty,  or  even  your 
overweening   pride  " 

There  was  a  slight  sarcasm  in  the  last 
words,  Fred  felt  half  ashamed  of  his 
momentary  hesitation. 
.  "You  may  command  me,"  he  said.  "I 
owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever  repay, 
I  do  need  some  one,"  he  added,  sorrow- 
fully, "to  stand  between  me  and  my  own 
headstrong  passions.  If  you  are,  indeed, 
ray  friend— and  I  have  every  reason  to 
believe  it — I  promise  to  be  guided  by 
your  counsels." 

Something  like  a  look  of  pleasure 
shone  in  the  eyes  of  the  hermit.  It 
quickly  passed  away,  however,  and 
when  he  again  spoke  his  voice  had  re- 
sumed his  usual  quiet  one. 
,  "Come  with  me,  then,"  said  the  her- 
mit,, passing  his  arm  through  that  of 
the  young  man.  "I  have  a  friend  resid- 
ing here,  with  whom  you  can  remain 
until  you  wish  to  depart." 

Both  walked  rapidly  and  in  silence  for 
a  short  distance.  Reaching,  at  length,  a 
small  but  comfortable-looking  inn,  the 
hermit,  who  seemed  familiar  with-  the 
place,  ordered  a  private  room  to  be  pre- 
paTed,  whither  he  repaired  with  hia 
young  companion. 

"Well,  vslr,"  he  began,  seating  himself, 
"may  I  ask  what  you  intend  doing  with 
yourself?"  . 

The, qi^estion  was.  so  abrupt  that  Fred 
couid  not  resist  a  smile. 


"Keally;  sir,"  he  replied,  "I  scarcely 
know  how  to  answer  you.  In  the  first 
place,  I  intend  to  return  to  my  regi- 
ment." 

"Before  you  visit  Pereival  Hall?"  in- 
quired the  hermit,  fixing  his  eyes  with 
a  peculiar  expression  on  his  companion's 
face. 

Fred  started  and  flushed.  His  first 
emotion  was  one  of  anger;  but,  quickly 
repressing  it,  he  answered,  somewhat 
coldly: 

"I  have  no  intention  of  going  therp. 
May  I  beg  to  know  why  you  ask?" 

"Come,  come,  my  young  friend,"  said 
the  hermit,  "no  concealments  from  me. 
if  you  wish  me  to  befriend  you.  You 
love  Kdlth   Pereival?" 

"I  cannot  deny  it,"  replied  Fred,  half 
irritated  by  the  abrupt  question. 

"And  she  is  engaged  to  be  married  t(t 
another?" 

"Yes,"  replied  Fred,  sternly. 

"You  have  seen  your  rival?"  continued 
the  hermit. 

Fred  l)Owed. 

"Are  you  aware  he  Is  your  deadliest 
enemy  ?"  said  his  strange  questioner. 

"Rivals  are  not  usually  very  good 
friends,"  said  the  young  man,  scorn- 
fully. "It  would  be  something  ,  new  if 
we  were  not  enemies." 

"Young  man,  beware  of  him!"  said  the 
hermit,  solenmly.  "You  have  reason  to 
fear  his  machinations." 

Fred  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  dashed 
back  his  long,  dark  hair,  as  he  ex- 
t "aimed,  impetuously: 

"Fear!  I  fear  no  man  living!  Let  lilm 
dare  to  meet  me  in  open  warfare,  and  I 
will  tfach  him  I  am  not  to  be  insulted 
with  impunity." 

"Sir,  sir,  De  Lisle  is  no  honorable  en- 
emy. He  will  not  meet  you  in  open 
warfare.  He  is  subtle  and  treacherous 
as  a  serpent — his  vengeance  will  not  be 
open,  but  it  will  be  none  the  less  deadly. 
You  cannot  guard  against  a  foe  who 
comes  by  stealth." 

"Let  him  come,"  said  Fred,  scornfully. 
"I  fear  him  not." 

"Rash  youth!"  said  the  hermit,  in  a 
tone  of  mingled  sorrow  and  anger,  "You 
despise  my  warning." 

"No,  sir,"  replied  Fred,  resuming  hia 
seat.  "I  thank  you  for  your  warning, 
which,  however,  was  scarcely  needed.  I 
am  already  aware  that  De  Lisle  is  my 
bitterest  foe,  and  I  can  assure  you  his 
dislike  is  returned  with  compound  in- 
terest. I  neither  intend  to  seek  him  nor 
to  avoid  him;  but  should  we  meet  in 
honorable  combat,  one  or  other  of  us 
shall  fall." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  diiring 
which  the  hermit  sat  with  his  eyes  cast 
down  like  one  lost  in  thought. 

"Does  Major  Pereival  know  you  love 
his  daughter?"  asked  he,  abruptly,  look- 
ing up.  ^ 


rUE    HiSlfMIT   OF    TlIK    t'UFFH. 


31- 


d,  scornfully, 


•No,"  said  Fred,  shrinking  sensitively, 
.IB  he  always  did,  from  discussing  such 
a  HUbjeot. 

"Do  you  Intend  telling  him?"  con- 
tinued his  unwearying  interlocutor. 

■I  do  not  know,  sir.  1  must  beg  you 
will  drop  this  subject,"  said  Fred,  with 
slorn    Impatience. 

••My  young  friend,  do  not  be  angry.  I 
have  the  power,  and,  let  me  add,  the  will, 
to  asBist  you.  With  the  natural  fiery 
imi'atlence  of  youth  you  cannot  brook 
jiny  Interference  In  this  matter  now,  but, 
l.clieve  me,  the  day  will  come  when  you 
\vill  not  be  ho  sensitive.  '  Do  you  know 
Major  Perclval'B  present  address!" 
"No!"  said  Fred,  eagerly.  "And  I  am 
very  anxious  to  see  his  son,  too." 

■This  is  it,  then,  '  said  the  'hermit, 
writing  as  he  spoke,  on  a  card.  'And 
now,  farewell  for  the  present.  Make  this 
your  home  v.hile  you  stay  here." 

•Going  so  soon?"  said  Fred,  rising, 
scarcely  knowing  whether  he  felt  pleased 
or  otherwise  by  his  absence. 

•'Yes,  I  cannot  now  remain  longer,  but 
1  shall  watch  over  you— not  as  a  spy  on 
vour  actions,  but  as  a  friend  who  takes 
a'  deep  interest  in  your  welfare.  Some 
day  it  will  need  no  argument  to  convince 
you  of  this.     Good  night,  my  son." 

He  folded  his  cloak  around  him,  bowed 
[Ki'avely,  and  was  gone. 

"Well,     I     must     say,"     he     observed, 

[throwing  himself  in  a  seat,  "of  all  the  in- 

Itomprehensible     old     gentlemen     ever    I 

jinet,   this  half-crazed,   wonderfully   wise 

[Hermit    of    the    Cliffs    beats    them    all. 

IHere  he  gives  me  a  lecture  as   long  as 

It  he  moral  law,  and  orders  me  about  as 

It  hough  I  were  of  no  consequence  at  all; 

iHnd  T.  who  was  always  headstrong  and 

[rebellious,   obey  as   meekly  as  though  I 

were  not  old  enough  to  judge  for  myself. 

That  man  is  a  mystery.    I  would  give  a 

trifle^  to  know  by  what  wonderful  spell 

he   saved   my   life.     Telling   me   he    will 

watch   over  me,   too,   as  though   I   were 

a  child.     I  am  afraid  if  he  watches  over 

mf  too  much  I  ^ill  be  inclined  to  resist. 

There's     Major    Percival's    address — I'll 

liay    my    respects    there    to-night:    it    is 

early  yet  " 

So  saying,  he  arose,  took  his  hat,  and 
quitted  the  house. 

Becoming  absorbed  in  his  own 
thoughts  again,  he  was  quite  .uncon- 
scious how  rapidly  he  was  striding  along 
tmtil  he  struck  against  some  one  who 
was  passing,  so  violently  as  nearly  to 
knock  him  down. 

"Better  not  try  that  again,"  said  the 
angry  voice  of  the  person  he  ran  against, 
ap  by  seizing  hold  of  a  lamp-post  he  re- 
covered his  equilibrium. 

"Nugent  Percival!"  exclaimed  Fred, 
laughing;   "don't  you  know  me?" 

"WTi  at!  "exclaimed  Percival.  drawing 
back  a&rhast,  "Fred  Stanley,  by  all  that's 


wonderful!      Can    this    be    you.    or    is    it 
only   your  ghost?" 

"Myself,  my  dear  Nugent,  my  verltni^U' 
self,"  said  Fred,  passing  his  arm  through 
bis,  and  drawing  him  along,  for  Perrlval 
seemed  too  much  astonished  to  move. 
"I  have  not  the  least  hesitation  In  assur- 
ing you,  I  am  myself— as  good  as  a  score 
of  ghosts  yet." 

"Well,  wonders  will  never  cease!"  said 
Percival,  drawing  a  deep  breath,  and 
surveying  his  companion,  as  though  still 
in  doubt.  "Here  I  was  going  along,  be- 
wailing your  untimely  end,  when,  lo! 
you  start  up  as  safe  and  sound  as  ever. 
My  dear  Fred,  have  compassion  on  me, 
and  tell  me  how  it  all  occurred.  Did  your 
father  relent,  as  I  told  you  he  would?" 

In  as  few  words  as  possible,  Fred  re- 
lated what  had  occurred.  Percival  lis- 
tened with  a  look  of  the  utmost  wonder. 
•'Phew!"  was  his  comment  when  Fred 
ceased,  with  a  long  whistle  of  most 
"sublime  perplexity.  "If  the  hermit  is 
not  Old  Nick  himself,  he  must  be  a  near 
relation.  What  a  providential  escape* 
My  father  called  to  see  Sir  William,  and 
came  home  in  a  towering  passion  be- 
cause all  his  entreaties  failed;  and  here 
this  unknown,  moonstruck  lunatic,  with 
a  few  words,  has  succeeded  in  what  jio 
other  earthly  being  could  have  done." 

Fred's  mouth  grew  stern. 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  "your  father 
degraded  himself  so  much  for  m.e.  I 
should  not  have  valued  a  pardon  thus 
extorted  from  him." 

"Oh!  well!  never  mind;  it's  all  right 
now,"  said  Percival,  who  seemed  the 
very  soul  of  good-nature.  "My  father 
will  be  rejoiced  to  hear  of  your  escape. 
And  those  at  home,  too,  thank  heaven! 
we  will  not  have  to  carry  them  such 
direful  news." 

"I  wish,  Percival,"  said  Fred,  looking 
slightly  annoyed,  "that  you  would  not 
mention  this  affair  to  them  when  you  re- 
turn. It  is  all  over  now,  and  it  might 
give— some  of  them  pain.  Promise  me 
you  will  say  nothing  about  it." 

"Oh.  certainly!"  replied  Nugent,  "but 
they  will  be  sure  to  hear  it.  De  Lisle,  of 
course,  will  find  out  all  about  it,  and  re- 
tail It  to  them  with  the  greatest  gusto." 

"His  only  regret  will  be  that  I  did  es- 
cape." said  Fred,  biting  his  lip. 

"I  have  no  doubt;  but,  of  course,  you're 
too  sensible  a  fellow  to  care.  You'll  re- 
turn home  with  me,  will  you  not?" 

"No,"  said  Fred,  coldly.  "I  shall  not 
trespass  on  your  hospitality  so  soon 
again.  My  path  of  duty  lies  in  another 
direction." 

"Well,  I  Wish  you  luck.  And  now  we 
must  part  for  an  hour  or  so:  for  my 
path  of  duty  at  present  lies  up  the  next 
street.  You  know  where  to  find  my 
father;  I  will  see  you  there  when  I  re- 
turn." 

"Until  then,  adieu,"  said  Fred,  raising 


!l 


Nltj 


m 


:i:! 


,1-      'r 


!  ■  .-'i 


89 


THE   aERMir   OF   THE   CLIFFS. 


hl8  hat,  and  turning  leisurely  In  the  dl- 
reotloTi  of  the  hotel. 

A  few  momentfl  brought  him  to  It,  and 
inquiring  for  Major  Perolval,  he  was 
shown  at  once  to  hie  room. 

The  major  chanced  to  be  thinking  of 
him  at  the  time— thinking  of  his  relent- 
less father,  and  the  sad  fate  of  the  son 
in  dying  so  young,  when,  hearing  the 
door  open,  he.  suddenly  looked  up,  and 
iteh«id  the  object  of  his  thoughts  stand- 
ing In  the  doorway,  so  tall,  and  dark, 
and  pale,  that  he  might  easily  have  mis- 
taken him  for  a  ghost.  Starting  to  his 
feet,  the  major  stood  staring  at  him  as 
though  he  doubted  the  evidence  of  his 
Menses. 

"Yoti  seem  surprised,  Major  Perclval," 
said  Fred,  advancing  toward  him.  "I 
presutne  you  expected  ere  this  that  I 
was  numbered  among  the  things  that 
were." 

"What!"  he  exclaimed,  "do  I  really  see 
alive  before  me  Frederic  Stanley?"  And 
the  major's  face  assumed  a  look'  of 
amazement    most   wonderful   to   behold. 

Fred  smiled  at  his  perplexity,  and 
once  again  repeated  the  tale  of  his  nar- 
row escape.  The  major  listened  with  a 
look  of  utter  bewilderment,  now  and 
then  ejaculating:  "Well,  well!"  "Jupi- 
ter!*' "Wonderful!"  and  sundry  other 
expressions  of   astonishment. 

"And  have  you  no  idea  who  this  Her- 
mit of  the  GlifCs,  as  they  call  him,  is?" 
he  Inquired,  when  Fred  paused. 

"None,  sir.  The  man  is  a  mystery  to 
every  one,  and  I  believe  Is  generally 
looked  upon  as  a  harmless  madman." 

"There  seems  to  be  method  in  his  mad- 
ness, however!''  said  the  major,  "it  is  in- 
deed most  wonderful  what  influence  he 
can  possess  over  your  father!  Sir  William 
Stanley  and  I  were  schoolmates  once,  and 
iiltiinate  friends  in  after  life.  I  saved  his 
life  once,  and  in  his  gratitude,  he  prom- 
ffied  that  the  first  favor  H.  would  ever  be 
c  ir.  -his  power  to  grant  to  me  should  be 
given.  The  first  I  ever  asked  of  him  was 
to  grant  his  owp  son  his  life— and  it  was 
angrily  refused.  Yet  here  at  the  last 
liioment,  a  moonstruck  maniac  comes 
along,  and  at  his  first  word  your  life  is 
spared.     Strange!   Strange!" 

'•I'  fear  It  will  always  remain  strange," 
said  Fred,  "neither  my. father  nor  the 
hermit  is  likely  to  reveal  it.  I  fear  there 
may  be  some  crime  connected  with  this 
mysteryi" 

"Well,  it  is  useless  for  us  to  perplex 
ourselves  trying  to  find  it  out!"  said  the 
major.  "And  now,  to  change  the  subject. 
W^  return  te  Perclval  Hall  to-morrow, 
and  I  beg  you  will  accompany  us." 

"I  thank  you^  Majbr  Perclval;  but  I 
must  decHne  your  invitation!"  replied 
Fred. 

"Ohi  poiE>hl  pooh!  I'll  take  no  refusal, 
you  must  come!"  Interrupted  the  mftjor, 
heartily.  >. '^         .^  :....■. 


He  looked  up  in  the  young  man^s  face 
as  he  spoke,  and  was  almost  startleu  uy 
ito  cold,  proud  expression. 

"Come,  my  dear  Stanley,  do  not  it- 
fuae!  You  will  spend  a  few  dayH  with 
us  at  least!"  he  said,  courteounly. 

"I  regret,  sir,  that  I  must  refuse!"  was 
the  frigid  reply. 

"Well,  if  you  will  not  come  now,"  con- 
tinued the  major,  who  seemed  in  an  un- 
usually hospitable  mood,  "promise  tt)  do 
so  in  a  few  weeks.  My  daughter  Edith 
is  to  be  married  about  that  time,  and 
we  Should  all  like  you  to  be  present  at 
the  ceremony." 

Fred  had  arisen  as  the  other  dpoko; 
and  now  Major  Perclval  looked  up  In 
bewilderment  to  see  him  looming  up 
above  him  so  high,  so  dark,  so  passion- 
ate-looking. He  ceased  speaking  abrupt- 
ly, and  stood  staring  at  him  in  wonder. 

"Major  Perclval,"  said  Fred,  in  a  voice 
so  deep  and  stern  as  quite  to  startle  that 
worthy  man,  "I  cannot  return  to  Perclval 
Hall,  because  I  love  your  daughter.  Wait 
one  moment,  sir,  and  hear  me  out!"  he 
added,  as  the  major  sprang  .fiercely  to 
his  feet.  "Miss  Perclval  will,  you  say, 
in  a  few  weeks  be  a  bride;  in  that  case 
we  shall  never  meet  again,  so  that  I 
can  speak  without  fear  of  misrepresen- 
tation. Since  the  first  moment  I  saw 
your  daughter,  I  loved  her — loved  her, 
too,  knowing  it  to  be  hopeless,  tor  she 
was  then  the  betrothed  bride  of  an- 
other." '  :     j . 

"Sir,  you're  a  villain,  sir;  yes,  sir,  a 
scoundrel,  sir!"  shouted  the  angry  and 
deeply  horrified  m&jor. 

"One  moment,  sir,"  said  Fred,  with 
su'^h  frigid  haughtin«i«s  as  quite  to  over- 
awe his  excited  companion;  "my  inten- 
tion was  never  to  mention  this  -  to  any 
one,  but  the  pressing, invitations  of  both 
.v'ourself  and  your  son  render  it  neces- 
sary. Sir,  I  am  a  man  of  honor,  and  as 
Much  could  not  again  become  a  member 
of  your  family,  knowing  that  your 
daughter  loves  me"— 

"Do  you  dare  to  tell  me  this!"  cri6d 
the  major,  growing  absolutely  purple 
with  passion.  '.;'. 

"Knowing  that  she  loves  me,"  con- 
tinued Fred,  with  the  same  stern  cold- 
ness as  though  the  major  had  not  spoken, 
"I  could  not  return;  and  my  continual 
refusal  of  your  invitation  might  lead  to 
misrepresentation.  Therefore,  sir,  I 
have  told  you  all;  and  now,  to  what- 
ever you  have  to  say  I  am  ready  to 
listen." 

He  folded  his  arms,  and  stood  like  a 
statue  before  him. 

"My  daughter  love  you,  indeed!  Sir, 
your  ci  iduct  has  been  treacherous  and 
dishonorable,  sir,  unworthy  of  a  soldier 
and  a  man  of  honor,  sir;  yeS;  sir,  even 
from  a  rebel  I  expected  better  conduct, 
sir!"  exclakned  the  enraged  jnajor;  Fred 
did  not  reply,  but  stood  erect,  calm  artd 


4f    t 


THE    HEUMIT    OF    THE   VLIFFH. 


M 


e  now,"  con- 
»ed  In  an  un- 
Jrotnlse  to  d(» 
ugrhter  Edith 
at  time,  and 
je  present  at 


itood  like  a 


[Htern.  "What  buslnees  hafl  you,  sir," 
continued  the  major,  still  more  vehem- 
lently,  "to  worm  yourself  Into  her  affec- 
tlonH?  You  knew  she  was  betrothed"  to 
another;  you  knew  1  would  soonvr  see 
her  dead  at  my  feet  than  the  wife  of  a 
rebel,  sir.  iJellevlnR  you  to  be  an  hon- 
orable young  man,  sir,  although  false  to 
your  king  and  country,  1  Interceded  with 
your  father  for  your  life  as  I  never  hum- 
bled myself  to  plead  for  any  one  before; 
and  In  return  you  coolly  come  here  and 
l>oast  that  you  have  treacherously  won 
the  affections  of  my  daughter,  an  Inex- 
perienced girl.  Sir,  I  repeat  It,  you're  a 
villain,  sir." 

The  major  seemed  to  have  forgotten, 
in  his  rage,  that  though  he  liad  inter- 
ceded in  vain  for  Fred's  life,  that  young 
man  had  saved  the  life  of  his  daughter. 

Still  Fred,  J:)y  a  mighty  effort,  listened 
to  his  Insults  without  speaking,  or  be- 
traying even  that  he  heard  his  words 
save  by  the  Intensely  scornful  light  In 
his  eyes. 

"And  now,  sir,"  again  began  the  major, 
absolutely  maddened  by  the  contemptu- 
ous silence  of  hi.s  listener,  "I  never  wish 
to  see  your  face  again!  Never  presume, 
sir,  to  see  my  daughter,  more;  begone, 
sir!  there  is  the  door!  I  expected  some- 
thing different  from  you,  but  1  have  been 
disappointed." 

He  flung  himself  into  a  chair  as  he 
spoke,  and  began  wiping  the  perspiration 
from  his  heated  and  inflamed  face. 

Fred  took  his  hat,  and  turning  toward 
the  door, ,  jsatd : 

"Your  kind  and  gentlemanly  words. 
Major  Fercival,  will  not  soon  be  forgot- 
ten. With  many  thanks  for  past  cour- 
tesies, which  I  regret  should  have  been 
lavished  on  so  unworthy  an  object,  I 
have  the  honor  to  bid  you  good  night." 

He  bowed  with  most  ceremonious  po 
liteness,  and  was  gone.  Despite  all  his 
outward  calmness,  his  brain  was  throb- 
bing and  burning  as  though  on  fire,  and 
his  passionate  heart  was  seething  with 
fiery  scorn  and  the  bitter  sense  of  wrong 
and  insult,  which  must  be  tamely  borne. 

As  he  stepped  out  into  the  moonlight, 
a  hand  was  laid  upon  his  shoulder. 
Something  of  what  was  pa.ssing  in  his 
mind  must  have  displayed  itself  on  his 
face,  for  Nugent  Percival  exclaimed,  in 
a  voice  of  alarm: 

"Stanley,  my  dear  fellow,  whgre  are 
you  going?" 

"To  perdition!"  was  the  passionate  re- 
ply. 

"For  heaven's  sake,   Fred,   dorr't   look 

so  wild,"  said  Nugent,  "tell  me  what  has 

•happened;     Have  you  told   my  father?'' 

"Yes,"  interrupted  Fred,  fiercely,  "I 
have  told  him  all,  and  been  loaded  with 
abuse  and  insult  stich  as  no  other  man, 
under  heaven  would  have  dared  to  heap 
upon-  me.  -  And  all  because  I  loved  his 
daughter.    Am.  I  not  her  equal?  Answer 


me  that.  Am  I  not  as  worthy  of  her 
as  that  cutthroat.  De  Lisle?  Tell  me, 
for  1  have  a  right  to  know!" 

He  clutched  ferclval's  arm  with  the 
grip  of  a  madman,  and  glared  upon  him 
with  his  excited  eyes. 

"My  dear  Stanley,  do  not  talk  so!  You 
look  as  though  you  were  erased.  Com« 
with  me  for  a  walk— the  cool  air  will 
restore  you  to  yourself,"  said  Nugent. 
soothingly. 

He  passed  his  arm  through  Fred's,  and 
drew  him  with  him  down  the  street. 
The  cool  night  air  did  Indeed  soothe  him; 
and  after  walking  a  short  way  In  silence, 
Fred  Rnld,  mere  calmly: 

"Forgive  me,  Percival,  I  knew  not 
what  1  was  saying.  But  to  be  obliged  to 
•stand  there,  and  listen  to  his  Insultr— 
I,  who  never  Imre  a  taunt  from  any  man* 
—was  maddening.  I  spoke  to  him  a*- 
coolly,  Percival,  as  you  could  have  done.' 
even  though  every  word  he  uttfered  stiing 
me  to  the  very  soul." 

Hlfl  eyes  blazed,  and  his  face  grew 
livid  at  the  remembrance. 

"Do  not  think  of  hia  words;  they  were 
uttered  in  a  moment  of  passion.  liellevo 
me,  no  one  will  regret  them  more  than 
himseh\  When  he  reflects  upon  what  ho 
has  said.  There,  my  dear  fellow,  do  not 
excite  yourself;  you  look  as  though  you 
were  delirious." 

"My  head  aches  as  though  red-hot 
wires  were  passing  through  It,"  said' 
Fred,  removing  his  hat,  and  shaking 
back  his  hair  off  ills  burning  brow,  while 
the  fierce  light  slowly  died  out  In  his 
eyes,  as  ho  listened  to  the  soothing  voice 
of  his  friend  % 

"Hasten  to  your  lodgings,  then;  yoii 
require  rest  and  repose,"  said  Nugent/ 
"Gome,  I  will  accompany  you.  To-night 
you  are  wild  and  excited;  to-Tnorrow 
you  will  Le  a  different  man."  .•>>* 

"To-^morrow  I  truet  I  shall  be  far  from 
here,"  said  Fred. 

''We  leave  to-morpow,  llkewtue,"  said 
P^^rclval;  "so- we  will  probably  not  meet" 
again. for  a  while.  Here  we  are  at  your 
stopping-place.  So,  wishing  the  world 
may  go  well  with  you  until  we  meet 
aga^n,  I  will  Wd  you  good-by." 

"Farewell,  my  dear  friend,"  said  Fred, 
wringing  his  hand.  And  the  two  friends 
parted  - 


'■--'  CHAPTER  XI. 

THi:  ADDUCTION. 

"She  stands   as  stands   the  stricken   deer. 
Checked  midway  In  the  fearless  chase;  • 
When  bursts  upon  her  eye  and.  ear 
The-gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  jiear 
Between  her  and  her  hiding-place;. 
While,  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow. 
Sweeps  like  a  stotm  the  coining  foe." 
-  '      —Whittlet. 

Meai*time,  how  was  it  with  Bdrth  and 
our  frie»ds^at  Percival  HaU?     - 


M 


THK    UKHMIT    (iF    Tllh    t'LlFFH. 


!   iP  P 


•  From  the  day  of  the  departure  of 
Fred,  De  Hnle  waB  moBt  devoted  In  his 
att«'iUlonB  »<»  hlB  betrothed.  Never  be- 
ft»re  had  he  appeared  so  deeply  In  love 
—  never  had  he  been  so  devoted— never 
!iad  he  been  ho  urKfnt  that  ahe  nhould 
name  an  etirly  day  for  their  inarrlaKe. 
The  fact  of  his  havInK  a  rival  had  made 
bim  more  resolved  than  ever  to  eompel 
lOdlth  to  fulfil  her  enKaKement— an  en- 
H'lKenienl  from  which  he  Haw.  with  fierce 
anKcr.  Hhe  shrank  with  lll-conccaled 
loathing.  The  caufle  was  to  him  only  too 
plain,  and  he  Inwaidly  vowed  that  once 
Hhe  wan  hlB  wife,  and  her  fortune  his, 
he  would  make  her  repent  this  visible 
('iHllke. 

The  other  members  of  the  family  were 
too  much  abHorbed  by  themselves  to  pay 
much  attention  to  Edith.  And  her  lover, 
Uus,  who  seemed  suddenly  to  have  for- 
gotten his  patriotism,  was  continually 
tied  to  the  apron-string  of  Nell— happy, 
or  Jealous,  or  Irritated,  according  to  the 
whim  of  that  capricious  young  lady. 
Mrs.  Perclval,  who  was  nearly  always 
.jbsorbed  In  the  mysteries  of  cp.nvas  and 
IJerlln  wool,  left  the  young  people  to 
their  own  devices.  And  so  Edith  was 
forced  to  submit  to  the  hateful  atten- 
tions of  De  Lisle. 

Edith  had  never  been  so  deeply  UiS- 
tressed  before.  There  was  no  one  In 
whom  she  could  confide.  She  dared  not 
even  mention  the  secret  of  her  attach- 
ment to  her  mother  or  sister.  Her  father 
was  soon  to  return;  and  then  she  felt 
sure  De  Lisle  would  so  influence  him 
with  his  specious  reasoning  that  he 
would  Insist  upon  her  marrying  him  im- 
mediately. But  gentle  and  yielding  as 
Edith  naturally  was,  and  much  as  she 
feared  her  father,  she  had  a  fund  of 
natural  firmness — an  unbending  deter- 
mination, vy-hich  few  gave  her  credit  for. 
She  might  never  see  Fred  again;  but 
Hhe  was  firmly  resolved  to  die  sooner 
than  marry  De  Lisle. 

But  in  the  meantime  she  shunnej? 
and  detested  her  suitor  as  much  as  pos- 
sible. She  could  catch,  at  times,  the 
fierce  gleam  of  his  eye  as  her  voice 
would  involuntarily  become  cold  when 
he  addressed  her,  or  she  would  shrink 
from  taking  his  proffered  arm.  And  so, 
troubled  by  the  present  and  dreading  the 
future,  Edith  grew  silent,  and  pale,  and 
restlesE,  passing  her  nights  in  tears  and 
sighs  instead  of  slumber. 

Seating  herself  at  her  chamber  window 
one  night,  her  head  leaning  on  her  hand, 
Edith  was  lost  in  thought,  when  the  door 
opened,  and  Nell,  in  dressing-gown  and 
slippers,  entered, 

"Why,  Edith!  what  have  you  done  to 
De  Lisle?"  exclaimed  Nell.  "I  saw  him 
go  off,  looking  as  cross  as  a  bear,  a  few 
moments  ago.  Seems  to  me  you  and  he 
don't  agree  so  well  as  you  used  to.  What 
did  you  say  to  him?" 


"Nothlng/'TepUed  Edith. 

"Well.  I'd  advise  you  to  say  aomethlnp 
next  time,"  said  Nell,  "and  not  drive  tht 
poor  fellow  to  dlsti'actlon.  I  declnrf. 
Edith,  I  never  knew  the  like  <»f  you  iiinl 
Ualph— you're  forever  making  him  an 
yrry.  Now.  there's  Ous  and  J,  vve  jjit 
along  swimmingly  together.  Love  ub!  If 
you  quarrel  in  this  manner  after  you' if 
married.  I  don't  know  what  sort  of  ii 
life   you'll   lead." 

Edith's  face  was  hidden   by  her  fallen 
hair,  and  Nell  could  not  see  the  expres 
Blon    of    her    face.      After   a    pause,    thai 
young  lady  returned. 

"I  heard  mamma  and  De  Lisle  talklnv 
about  the  wedding  to-night.  Papa  ha- 
sent  word  that  he  will  be  at  home  In  n 
day  or  two,  and  has  got  some  new 
crotchet  into  his  head;  for  he  Bays  h»' 
wishes  the  marriage  to  talje  place  Im- 
mediately. De  Lisle  is  wonderfully 
pleased  about  it,  too;  he  was  awfull.v 
Jeal«^us  when  Mr.  Stanley  was  here.  O. 
Edith!  wasn't  he  a  splendid-looking  fel- 
low ?" 

But  to  Noll's  surprise,  Edith  only  bul- 
led her  face  In  her  hands,  and  wept  con- 
vulsively. 

"Why,  bless  me!  what's  the  matter? 
Have  I  said  anything  to  hurt  your  feel- 
ings? Tell  me.  what  is  it,  Edith?"  said 
Nell,  winding  her  arms  around  her  sis- 
ter's neck.     "What  are  you  crying  for?  ' 

"Ellen,  I'm  so  wretched,"  sobbed  Edith. 

"Wretched!  what  about?  "Don't  you 
want  to  marry  De  Lisle?"  asked  Nell. 

"No,  no;  no,'  no!  O  Nell!  I  hate  even 
to  think  of  it,"  said  Edith,  wringing  her 
hands. 

"Well,  now  that's  odd,"  said  Nell, 
meditatively.  "Why,  I  thought  you  liked 
him!" 

"Like  him!  Heaven  forgive  me — I  al- 
most hate  him!"  said  Edith,  with  a 
shudder. 

"La!"  ejaculated  Nell,  "whom  do  you 
like  then?  Edith,  Edith!  is  what  Ralph 
says  true?— do  you  love  Fred  Stanley?" 

Edith  hid  her  face  in  her  falling  hair, 
and  answered  only  by  a  shivering  sob. 
Nell's  gay  face  wore  a  half-puzzled,  half- 
troubled,  half-pleased  look. 

"Well,  Edith,"  she  said,  after  a  little 
thoughtful  pause,  "do  you  Icnow  I'm 
more  than  half  glad  you  don't  care  for 
De  ^.isle?  He's  a  Jealous,  suspicious  fel- 
low, anij  not  half  good  enough  for  you. 
My!  Just  see  him  alongside  Mr.  Stan- 
ley; why,  he  looks  a  mere  puppy,  com- 
pared with  him,  Reallyfif  it  wasn't  for 
poor  dear  Gus.  I'd  be  desperately  In  love 
with  him  myself," 

Edith  tipped  her  head,  and  gave  her 
sister  such  a  radiant  look  of  gratitude, 
that  tlie  latter  was  quite  startled. 

"But,  O  Nell!  what  shall  I  do?"  said 
Edith,  In  distress, 

"Do?"  said  Nell,  with  a  look  of  sur- 
prise.    "Why,  refuse  him,  of  course!"    "^ 


la! 

mai 

Hel 

yovi 
i*eol 


OlU 


TOM    UKRMIT    Of    TUK    VLlhyH. 


86 


'M.V  Hornethliip 
not  drive  the 
F    deolarr. 
<»'  of  you  iiihl 
t'nK    hfm    an 
n<J    ;.    \v»-    (f,  I 
Love  UB?  If 
■  after  ynui.- 
at    Hort    nf   ;i 

by  her  fall,  i, 
p  the  expre.s 
pause.    tliHi 

Lisle  talklnr. 
Papa  has 
t  home  In  ti 
some    new 
he   Hays   he 
fe   place  Im- 
wonderfullv 
'vas    awfully 
as  here.     d. 
-looklnK  fel- 

th  only  hui- 
d  wept  oon- 

the    matteiV 
t  your  feei- 
2dlth?"  sahi 
ind  her  sls- 
•rylng  for?" 
hbed  Edith 
Don't    you 
Jked  Nell. 
I  hate  even 
ringlngr  hei 

said     Nell, 
't  you  liked 

me— I  al- 
ii,   with    ff 

)m  do  you 
hat  Ralph 
Stanley?" 
lllng  hair, 
ering  sob. 
zled,  half- 

2r  a  little 
tnow  I'm 
t  care  for 
Iclous  fel- 
'  for  you. 
^r.  stan- 
>Py.  com- 
■'asn't  for 
ly  In  love 

gave  her 
rratltude, 
?d. 

o?"  said 

of  sur- 

irse!"   'V  - 


"But  papa— he  will  be  so  angry!" 

•'YfcB.  I  know,  oh!  he'll  be  awful.  But, 
ia!  that'H  no  reason  why  yuu  should 
marry  De  I^lBle,  if  you  don't  like  him. 
He  can't  kill  you.  you  know;  and  »o 
you'll  get  off.  Yuu  needn't  care  for  a 
scolding." 

"O  Nell!   I  dare  not;  I  am  Bfraid." 

"Afraid!"  repeated  Nell,  contemptu- 
ously. "Edith,  1  wouldn't  i)e  such  a 
coward  as  y<tu  for  all  the  world.  Afraid, 
Indeed!  Oh!  don't  I  wish  It  was  me  they 
wanted  to  marry!  Wouldn't  I  tell  them 
a  piece  of  my  mind,  and  Just  let  them 
storm  as  much  hh  they  liked.  I'd  walk 
up  to  the  altar  and  marry  a  fellow  I 
detested,  because  papa  and  the  gentle- 
man himself  desired  it?  Oh!  wouldn't  I, 
though?"  And  Nell  whirled  round  In  an 
ironical  pirouette. 

"But  you  know,  Nell,  papa  is  bo  vio- 
lent." 

"Violent?  Fiddlesticks!  You  l)e  vio- 
lent, too;  that's  the  way  to  do  It.  Put 
your  arms  akimbo,  and  tell  them  all  up 
and  down  you  won't  have  him;  and  if  De 
Lisle  gets  mad,  and  tears  would  tell  him 
you  are  sorry  for  him— but  he's  too  late 
for  supper." 

"O  Nell,  you  know  I  couldn't  do  that!" 
said  Edith. 

"No!"  said  Nell,  sarcastically,  "no;  but 
you  could  go  and  marry  one  man  while 
you  love  another.  Well,  do  as  you 
please;  and  the  first  time  I  see  Fred 
Stanley  I'll  tell  him  he  ha^  had  a  lucky 
escape.  Such  a  timid  thing  as  you  are 
would  be  the  last  a  high-spirited  fellow 
like  him  should  marry." 

"Sister,  how  can  you  be  so  cruel?" 
said   Edith,   weeping, 

"Bother!  You'd  provoke  a  saint. 
Thank  the  stars  Fm  able  to  defend  my- 
self. Come,  Edith."  she  added,  more 
gently,  "be  a  man!  Dry  your  eyes,  and 
don't  niake  a  goose  of  yourself.  Tell  De 
Lisle  to-morrow  you  won't  have  him;  tell 
him  you  can't  bear  him,  and  tlmt  you 
wouldn't  marry  him  if  he  was  the  last 
man  in  the  world.  He'll  be  mad,  and 
make  a  fuss,  of  course— there  wouldn't 
be  any  fun  in  it  if  he  didn't.  Tlien, 
when  papa  comes  home,  tell  him  the 
same,  and  stick  to  it.  Of  course,  they'll 
all  tear  round,  and  be  In  a  great  way 
at  first;  but,  after  a  while  things  will 
settle  down  again — 'after  a  storm  there 
Cometh  a  calm,'  you  know.  Lor,  Edith, 
1  wish  I  was  in  your  place,  for  the  time 
being;  T  wouldn't  Avant  bettei   fun." 

The  energetic  and  vigorous  spirit  of  the 
little  black-eyed  Amazon  seemed  gradu- 
ally to  communicate  Itself  to  her  more 
timid  sister.  As  she  ceased,  Edith  sat 
erect,  pale,  but  collected. 

"You  are  right,  Ellen!"  she  said,  slow- 
ly, as  she  gathered  up  her  disordered 
tresses.  "Would  to  heaven  I  had  your 
fearless  spirit !  but  since  I  have  not,  I 
must  nerve  my  own  to  bear  the  trial." 


"Bravo.  Edith,  my  dear!"  exclaimed 
Nell,  delightedly. 

"YeH,"  continued  EJdlth.  like  one  think- 
ing aloud,  "there  is  no  other  way  oC 
avoiding  the  dele8te<i  marriage.  Beside, 
J  promised  him  I  would!" 

"Promised  whom?"  said  Nell,  opening 
her  eyes. 

"Never  mind,  my  dear,"  said  Edith. 
smil'mc  and  blushing;  "leave  me  now. 
(Jood  nigbf.  To-morrow  you  will  find  I 
hwve  taken  your  advUe." 

Nell  laughed,  and,  after  kissing  Editli, 
left  the  room. 

Edith  passed  an  almost  sleepless  night. 
Nutuially  tlnild,  she  shrank  from  the 
disclosure  she  felt  heiself  obliged  to 
make,  kncnvlng  well  the  violent  scene 
that  would  usHuredly  follow.  But  since 
there  was  no  alternative,  she  determined 
to  brave  the  worst  at  once,  und  seek  an 
interview  with  De  Lisle  the  next  morn- 
ing. 

An  opportunity  was  nut  long  wanting'. 
Entering  the  library  in  search  of  a  i>ook, 
after  breakfast  the  following  day,  she 
beheld  De  Lisle  seated  at  the  window, 
his  head  leaning  on  his  hand,  gazing 
moodily  out.  He  started  to  his  feet  h« 
he  b«^held  her.  while  poor  Edith,  \wv 
heart  throbbing  like  a  frightened  l>ird, 
turned  Hrst  red  and  then  pale,  and  then 
red  ago  In,  feeling  tljat  the  dreaded  nno- 
ment  had  at  length  come. 

"This  Is  an  unexpected  pleasure,  MlsM 
Edith,"  said  De  Lisle,  placing  a  chair 
for  her. 

She  acknowledged  his  greeting  i>y  a 
slight  inclination  of  the  head,  and  stood 
with  one  hand  resting  on  the  buck  of  the 
chair,  scarcely  knowing  how  to  begin. 

"Is  it  not  a  pity  to  spend  such  a  lovely 
morning  In  the  house?"  said  De  Llali. 
"What  do  you  say  to  a  ride?" 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Edith,  feeling  more 
and  more  embarrassed;  "I  do  not  feel 
inclined  for  riding  this  rooming." 

"You  are  not  ill,  I  hope?"  observed  De 
Lisle,  somewhat  anxiously.  "You  are 
looking  very  pale!" 

"I  am  quite  well,  thank  you,"  answered 
Edith,  shrinking  still  more  from  the  task 
before  her. 

"I  am  rejoiced  to  hear  it,"  said  De 
Lisle.  Then,  after  a  pause,  he  added, 
abruptly :  "I  presume  you  have  heard 
your  father  and  Nugent  are  coming  home 
to-morrow?" 

"To-morrow?"  echoed  Edith.  "So 
soon?"  * 

"So  it  seems.  Your  mother  received  a 
letter  from  the  major  last  night." 

"Mr.  De  Lisle,"  began  Edith,  desper- 
ately. "I  have— that  is,  I  wii^— to"— 
Edith  paused,  while  her  heart  throbbed 
so  loudly    she  grew  almost  frightened. 

De  Lisle  bowed  respectfully,  and  stood 
waiting  with  calm  attention  for  what 
was;  to  foUaws 

"In   a   word.    Mr.    De   Lisle,"    she   re- 


36 


TBE    HERMIT    Ot    THE    ChlFtti. 


'i:' 


h 


PM 


sumed,  rapidly,  thinking  it  best  to  be 
brief,  "it  is  impossible  for  me  to  fulfil 
my  engagement.  Sir,  I  cannot  marry 
you!" 

Her  voice  trembled  a  little,  but.  she 
looked  boldly  into  his  face,  which  was 
rapidly  darkening. 

"What!"  he  said,  slowly,  "break  your 
engagement?  Have  1  understood  you 
aright.  Miss  Percival?" 

"You  have,  sir,"  she  answered,  growing 
calm  and  fearless,  now  that  the  worst 
vas  over. 

"And  for  what  cause,  may  I  ask?"  he 
said,  with  outward  calmness,  though  his 
face  was  absolutely  white  with  sup- 
pressed passion. 

"Because  I  do  not  love  you,"  was  the 
answer. 

"And  because  you  do  love  that  hand- 
some rebel.  Master  Fred  Stanley.  Is  It 
not  so,  fair  lady,"  he  asked,  with  a  bitter 
sneer. 

The  blood  flushed  hotly  to  Edith's  face, 
and  for  a  moment  her  eye  fell  before 
that  dark,  scathing  glance.  It  was  only 
for  a  moment,  and  then  she  looked  al- 
most defiantly  up  into  his  face. 

"You  are  at  liberty  to  assert  what  you 
please,  sir.  1  will  not  contradict  you. 
But  I  repeat  it:  1  cannot— will  not  be 
your  wife." 

"That  remains  to  be  seen,  Miss  Edith," 
he  answered,  with  a  mocking  smile. 
"How  do  you  suppose  your  father  will 
listen  to  such  an  independent  assertion?" 

"He  will  be  very  angry,  doubtless."  said 
Edith;  "but.  in  this  case,  even  his  anger 
cannot  move  me.  I  cannot  vow  to*  love 
and  honor  one  for  whom  I  cherish  no 
affection,  nor  ardent  emotion.  It  would 
be  doing  injustice  to  you,  to  myself,  and 
to"— 

"Fred  Stanley— why  do  you  hesitate, 
my  dear  young  lady?"  said  De  Lisle, 
with  his  evil  sneer. 

"Sir,  I  will  not  remain  here  to  be  in- 
sulted!" exclaimed  Edith,  indignantly, 
turning  toward  the  door. 

"Ah!  so  you  do  consider  it  an  insult  to 
have  your  name  coupled  with  that  of 
that  rebel,  Stanley?  I  am  glad  to  hear 
you  have  so  much  sense  left,  at  least," 
said  De  Lisle. 

Edith,  whose  hand  was  already  on  the 
handle  of  the  door,  turned  at  his  -vords. 
and  confronted  him  with  glowing  cheeks 
and  flashing  eyes,  while  she  exclaimed, 
vehemently: 

"No!  Ralph  De  Lisle.  I  do  not  con- 
.««lder  it  an  Insult  to  be  named  with  him. 
And  now  I  tell  you,  since  you  have 
dHven  rne  to  it.  that  I  do  love  him.  and 
him  alone.  Yes;  I  am  proud  to  own  't, 
and  I  never  will  marry  any  one  save 
him!" 

"We  shall  see,"  said  De  Lisle,  with  the 
same  cold  sneer  with  wh<ch  bp  ^Pd 
spoken  throughout.  "I  have  very  seri- 
ous doubts  as  to  whether  the  young  gen- 


tleman alluded  to  is  not  by  this  time  in 
a  better  world.  As  for  this  little  scent', 
it  is  very  well  done  Indeed;  meantime, 
you  had  better  prepare  for  your  wed- 
ding.    Pass  on,  fair  lady." 

He  held  the  door  open,  and  bowed  her 
out  with  most  ceremonious  politeness. 
Without  deigning  to  notice  him,  Edith 
hurried  away  to  her  room,  and,  burying 
her  face  in  her  hands,  burst  into  a  pas- 
sion ot  tears. 

And  three  hours  after,  making  some 
plausible  excuse,  De  Lisle  left  Percival 
Hall    to  join  the  major. 

The  following  day  '■he  twain  arrived 
(Major  Percival  and  De  Lisle),  busine^- 
still  retaining  Nugent  in  the  city. 

It  was  evident  to  Edith  that  De  Lisl* 
must  have  prejudiced  her  fatiier  againsi 
her,  for  her  greeting  was  returned  with 
cold  sternness,  vjry  unlike  his  wonted 
manner.  But  even  this  coldness  aided 
Edith,  for  had  he  met  her  with  aflfet - 
tionate  caresses,  her  resolution  might 
have  faltered.  As  <t  was,  her  pride  and 
a  sense  of  injustice  sustained  her.  and 
with  the  determination  of  dying  sooner 
than  marrying  De  Lisle,  she  awaited  the 
scene  that  was  yet  to  come.  Not  long 
had  she  to  wait.  The  following  evening, 
Edith,  who  had  absented  herself  from 
the  supper-table,  was  summoned  to  the 
parlor,  where,  seated  In  state,  were 
Major  Percival  and  his  lady,  De  Lisle, 
and  Nell. 

"Be  seated.  Miss  Percival,"  said  the 
major,  with  overwhelming  dignity. 

The  color  deepened  on  Edith's  cheek 
as  she  obeyed. 

"Hem!"  began  the  major;  "you  ere 
aware,  I  presume,  that  in  a  few  weeks 
you  are  to  become  the»bride  of  De  Lisle, 
here?"  . 

"I  was  to  have  been  his  bride,  papa," 
murmured  Edith. 

"Was,  Miss  Percival,  was?"  said  the 
major,  •severely.  "You  are  tc  be,  you 
mean!" 

"I  cannot,  sir!"  said  Edith,  though  her 
voice  faltered  a  little. 

"You  cannot!"  repeated  Major  Perci- 
val, with  an  ominous  frown  gathering  on 
his  brow. 

"No,  sir!" 

"But  I  say  yes!"  exclaimed  the  major, 
vehemently,  springing  to  his  feet.  "You 
shall  be  his  wife.    I  command  you!" 

"Then,  sir,  it  will  be  m^  painful  duty 
to  disobey  you*^"  said  li^dith,  witli  8 
heightened  color,  as  she  also  rose. 

"My  dear."  said  Mrs.  Percival,  laying 
her  hand  gently  on  her  husband's  arm. 
"do  not  be  violent.  We  can  wait;  give 
Edith  time— do  not  be  angry  with  her 
now." 

The  words  so  softly  spoken  subdued 
the  fiery  wrath  of  the  major.  The  fear- 
less demeanor  of  Edith,  so  different  from 
all  he  had  ever  known  of  her,  also  had 


THE   HERMIT   OF   THE    CLIFFS. 


87 


some  effect,  upon  him      Seatingr  himself, 
therefore.  In  his  chair,  he  grrowled: 

"Time!  the  minx  may  have  as  much 
time  as  she  likes,  if  It  will  only  bring  her 
to  a  reasonable  frame  of  mind." 

"Oh!  thank  you,  papa,"  said  Edith; 
•■l»ut   I   can   never"— 

"Major  Percival,"  interrupted  De  Lisle, 
who  had  listened  in  angry  astonishment, 
•am  I  to  understand  our  marriage  will 
nut  take  place  at  the  appointed  time?" 

"Why,  De  Lisle,  you  hear  what  that 
vixen  says!" 

"But,  sir,  you  should  insist,"  said  De 
liisle,  rising  angrily.  "I  protest  against 
this  deci^on!"  ^ 

"Protest  and  be  hanged!"  said  the 
major,  growing  angry  in  his  turn.  "Am 
I  to  be  ordered  by  you,  sir?  Edith  Per- 
cival shall  wait  as  long  as  she  pleases; 
and  you  may  consider  yourself  fortunate 
U)  get  her  in  the  end!"  And  the  major, 
happy  ta  find  some  one  to  vent  his 
wrath  on,  turned  furiously  on  De  Lisle. 

"Sir  I  will  not  wait!"  exclaimed  De 
Lisle,  passion  and  disappointment  for 
the  time  overcoming  prudence.  "Your 
daughter  was  to  have  been  my  wife  at 
the  expiration  of  three  weeks,  and  I  now 
insist  on  it  as  my  right!" 

"  'Insist,'  do  you?"  thundered  the 
niajor.  "You  impertinent  scoundrel:  if 
you  say  another  word  I'll  cancel  the  en- 
gagement altogether,  and  you  may  go 
whistle  for  a  wife!"  And  he  brought  his 
clenched  fist  down  with  such  a  thump 
in  the  table  that  every  one  jumped. 

De  Lisle  bit  his  lip  and  was  silent. 
Convinced  by  this  time  how  unwisely  he 
had  acted,  he  resolved  to  adopt  a  difCer- 
»^nt  course.  Assuming,  therefore,  a  peni- 
tent tone,  he  said: 

"Pardon  me,  sir;  my  feelings  have  car- 
ried me  beyond  the  bounds  of  modera- 
tion. I  bow  to  your  superior  judgment 
and  willbear  my  disappoiatmeiit  as  best 
I  may." 

The  major  rather  stiffly  acknowledged 
his  a.'701ogy  —  while  Edith,  pleading  a 
headache,  hurried  from  the  room.  In  a 
few  moments  she  was  joined  by  Nell. 

"Well.  'Dlth,  what  did  I  tell  you?"  ex- 
claimed that  young  lady.  "You  see  the 
trial's  over,  and  you're  in  the  land  and 
living  yet,  My!  did  you  see  how  morti- 
fied De  Lisle  looked,  though?  It's  my 
iipinion  his  penitence  was  all  a  sham.  I 
never  saw  angrier  eyes  in  any  one's  head, 
than  his  were  all  the  time  he  was  speak- 
ing so  respectfully  and  humbly.  Oh! 
there's  Gus  in  the  garden;  I'm  going 
down  to  tea,?e  him.  Bon  soir!"  And 
Nell  bounded  froin  the  apartment. 

All  the  next  day  De  Lisle  maintained 
a  respectfully  reserved  manner  toward 
Edith  and  the  major.  This  evidently 
produced  a  deep  impression  on  the  mind 
of  the  latter,  though  Edith  plainly  per- 
ceived it  was  assumed.  The  following 
evening,  as  Edith   stood  on  the  piazza, 


gazing  out  into  the  still  moonlight,  De 
Lisle  approached  and,  touching  his  hat, 
said: 

"Good  evening.  Miss  Edith,  you  are 
looking  charming  in  the  paie  moonlight. 
What  do  you  say  to  a  drive  this  lovely 
night?    My  carriage  is  at  the  door." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Edith,  coldly,  "I 
prefer  remaining  \vhere  I  am." 

"W.iat's   that?"    said   the   major,    who' 
now  appeared. 

"I  ordered  my  carriage,  sir,  thinking 
Miss  Percival  might  feel  inclined  for  a 
drive  this  fine  night.  She,  however,  re- 
fuses," said  De  Lisle. 

"Nonsense,  Edith,"  said  the  major,  an- 
grily, "you  are  growing  as  obstinate  as 
a  mule.  Away  with  you  and  get  ready; 
and  don't  let  the  grass  grow  under  your 
feet." 

Edith  could  no  longer  disobey.  She 
accordingly  entered  the  house,  and  soon 
reappeared  In  carriage  costume.  De 
Lisle  handed  her,  with  the  most  respect- 
ful gallantry,  into  the  carriage  and  they 
dashed  off  behind  a  splendid  pair  of 
bays. 

For  upward  of  an  hour  they  drove  on, 
almost  in  silence,  Edith  replying  to  all 
De  Llsle's  observations  only  in  monosyl- 
lables. Still,  he  showed  no  sign  of  re- 
turning. 

"Let  us  go  back,  Mr.  De  Lisle,"  said 
Edith,  at  length;   "the  air  is  very  cold." 

"Wrap  this  shawl  around  you,"  said 
De  Lisle;  "I  am  anxious  to  show  you 
something  a  little  farther  on?" 

He  tolded  the  shawl  carefully  around 
her,  while  she  submitted  in  silence;  and 
again  they  dashed  forward  more  swiftly 
than  before.  Half  an  hour  passed,  and 
still  he  showed  no  symptoms  of  return- 
ing. 

"Mr.  De  Lisle."  said  Ed!'.h,  impatient- 
ly, "I  wish  to  go  home.  Will  it  please 
you  to  return?" 

"In  one  moment,"  said  De  Lisle,  as  he 
suddenly  reined  in  the  horses,  and  gave 
a   loud,   peculiar   whistle. 

"Sir!  what  does  this  mean?"  asked 
Edith,  in  alarm. 

He  turned  and  gazed  upon  her  for  a 
moment  with  an  evil  smile,  but  said 
nothing.  An  instant  after,  two  men 
stood  holding  the  bridle-reins  of  the 
horses. 

"Ralph  De  Lisle,"  said  Edith,  in  in- 
creasing terror,  "what  means  this?" 

"It  means,  fairest  Edith,  that  Fred 
Stanley,  when  he  comes  to  woo,  will  have 
to  select  another  wife  than  Miss  Per- 
cival!" 

"Sir,  sir!  I  do  not  comprehend  you," 
said  Edith,  growing  sick  and  faint  with 
terror. 

"Do  you  not?  Listen  then,  Edith;  you 
must  come  with  me.  When  next  you  see 
Percival  Hall,  it  shall  be  as  the  wife  of 
Ralph  De  Lisle!" 

In    the    clear    moonlight   his    face   re- 


TBti  mitMif   OF   THE   (fLlPFS. 


■iiln 


i  ill 


!.■ 


BetnbleB  that  ot  %  derhort:  The  truth 
burst  at  once  upon  Edith  with  stunning 
force,  ahd  with  one  wild,  shrill  cry  of 
terror,  she  sank  back  in  her  seat  arid 
the  dark  nigrht  of  Insensibility  closed 
around  hier.    , 


,^  CkAPtER  XII.  . 

IN   CAPTIVITY. 

.  "When  first,  with  all  a  lover's  pride, 
I  woo'd  and  won  thee  for  my  bride, 
I  little  thought  that  thou  wouldst  be 
Estranged  as  now  thOu  art  from  me. 

—Anon. 

WHEN  Edith  again  opened  her  eyes  she 
found  herself  lying  on  a  couch  with 
some  one  bending  over  her,  chafing  her 
cold  hands  and  temples.  Her  eyes  wan- 
ctered  wildly  around  until  they  rested 
upon  the  detested  form  of  De  Lisle,  who 
stood  leaning  lightly  against  the  mantel- 
piece. Pushing  a\»'ay  the  hands  that 
rested  on  her  foreb^ad,  she  raised  her- 
self on  her  elbow  and  gazed  with  a  oe- 
wildered  air  around. 

"Leave  the  room,  Elva,"  said  De  Lisle, 
carelessly,  without  moving. 
,  Edith  heard  the  door  open,  but  before 
she  could  look  around  it  closed  again  and 
she  was  alone  with  De  Lisle. 

"Where  am  I?  what  means  this,  sir?" 
exclaimed  Edith,  springing  to  her  feet 
with  an  overpowering  but  undefined 
sense  of  terror. 

"That  you  must  favor  us  with  your 
presence  in  this  old  building  for  a*"  week 
or  so,  Miss  Edith,"  said  De  Lisle,  care- 
lessly. 

"Do  you  mean,  sir,  that  I  am  a  pris- 
oner?" desmanded  Edith,  growing  very 
pale. 

r'Exactly  so,  my  dear,"  replied  the 
young  man.  , 

"You   cannot— you   will  not— you   dare 
not!"  exclaimed   Edith,   vehement-;. 

"Dare  not!"  he  repeated,  w4th  a  sinis- 
ter smile. 

■"Yes,  sir.     I  repeat  it,  you  would  not 
v-enture  to  detain  me  here  a  prisoner." 
'   "We  shall,  see,",  he  said,,  carelessly. 
."-Mr.  De  Lisle,  I  command  you  to  re- 
lease me."  ■  , 

"Command  away,  then;  I  like  to  hear 
you,"  said  De  Lisle,  with  the  utmost 
nonchalance. 

"Sir,  if  you  are  a  man  of  honor,  you 
will  restore  me  to  my  father!"  exclaimed 
Edith,  still  jnore  vehemently. 

"That  I  will  do  with  pleasure  when 
you  are  my  wife." 

"I  will  never  be  your  wife,  sir;  I  would 
die  first!"  she  said,  indignantly, 

"Indeed,  fairest  Edith,"  he  ssaid,  with 
a  sneer,  "perhaps  you  will  not  find  It  so 
ea«y  to  die  as  you  imagine.  Most  young 
I&dies  of  youT  age  would  infinitely  pre- 
fer marriage  to  death." 
•  "Ralph  De  Lisle,  are  you  lost  to  all 


sense  of  hohor?— forcing  a  /tiri  to  rnarry 
you  against  her  Will!     Oh.  shame!*' 

"flonor!"  said  De  Liisle,  bitteiriy^;  "that 
word  sounds  well  on  your  lips,  fair  lady. 
It  was,  doubtless,  vt.ry  hono'rable  in  you 
to  break  your  plighted  faith  and  sur- 
render your  heart  to  the  n^xt  who  asked  I 
you  for  It.  Tiake  care,  pretty  Edith;  f 
those  who  live  in  glass  houses  should  ij 
not  throw  stones."  ' 

Edith  sank  back  iii  her  seat  and,  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  hands,  wept  with 
mingled  fear  and  indignation.  De  Lisle 
stood  watching  her  for  a  moment  with 
a  mo.st  sinister  smile — then,  turning  io 
the  door,  he  said: 

"Farewell  for  the  present.  Miss  Perci- 
val;  I  shall  send  a  girl  to  attend  to  you 
by  and  by.  I  shall  have  the  happines,s  of 
seeing  you  again  during  the  course  of 
the  day."    . 

He  closed  the  door  and  was  gone. 
Edith  heard  the  sounds  of  bolts  draw- 
ing without  and  felt  she  was  Indeed  a 
prisoner  in  the  hands  of  the  man  she 
deteste^d.  Oh!  where  was  Nugent?— 
Avhere  was  Fred  then?  She  sobbed  in 
a  perfect  passion  of  grief  until  her  over- 
charged heart  had  had  its  way  and  sne 
gradually  grew  calm. 

"I  will  die  sooner  than  marry  him," 
she  exclaimed,  vehemently.  "He  will 
find  I  am  not  to  be  intimidated  by  his 
threats— that  I  have  spirit  enough,  when 
roused,  to  resist  injustice." 

Her  cheeks  flushed  and  the  sparkling 
light  in  her  eyes  bespoke  her  determina- 
tion. Feeling  more  composed,  she 
glanced  around  the  apartment  with 
some  curiosity. 

It  was  a  long,  square  room,  with  a 
very  low  ceiling,-  festooned  elegantly 
with  cobwebs.  In  one  corner  stood  a 
bed,  without  curtains,  covered  with  a 
coarse  but  clean  quilt.  Opposite  this 
stood  a  table,  a  wooden  chest  and  a 
chair.  This,  together  with  the  couch  on 
which  she  eat,  comprised  the  furniture  of 
the  room.  The  floor  was  uncarpeted  and 
the  one  solitary  window  uncui'tained. 

Edith  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  out.  The  iron  grating  outside 
destroyed  the  faint  hope  of  escape  whicb 
had  begun  to  spring  up  In  her  Ineaat. 
The  room  was  in  the  second  or  third 
story,  judging  by  its  distance  from  the 
yard  below.  The  prospect  on  which  she 
gazed  was  dreary  beyond  description. 
The  dull-gray  dawn  of  morning  was 
creeping  sluggishly  over  the  hills  with 
it'-  spectral  feet.  A  thick,  drizzling  rain 
wati  falling;  and  the  wind,  as  it  sighed 
around  the  old  hous^,  sounded  inex- 
pressibly dismal.  The  view  from  the 
window  was  not  very  extensive — being 
bounded  by  tall  trees,  from  which  she 
judged  it  was  situated  in  the  forest;  A 
high  wall  surrounded  the  wet,  littered 
yard  below;  and,  altogether,  a  more 
uncomfortable    place—both    within    and 


THE   HERMIT   Of   THE   CLWm. 


39 


i  itirl  to  rnarry 
I*  shame.'" 
bitterijr;  "that 
"Ps,  fair  ladjr 

;n?*?ble  In  yoir 
r^^Hn  and   suf- 

>ext  Who  asked 
pretty  Edith; 
nouses  should 

seat  and,  cov- 
nds,  wept  with 
Hon.  De  Lisle 
moment  with 
sn,   turning  to 


Id  was  gone. 
I  bolts  draw- 
was  Indeed  a 
the  man  she 
IS  Nugent  ?— 
he  sobbed  in 
ntll  her  over- 
way  and  ame 


3oni,    with    a 
-<1    elegantly 
ner  stood   a 
2red   with    a 
pposlte   this 
•nest   and   a 
he  couch  on 
furniture  of 
arpeted  and 
eui'tained. 
Indow    and 
"Iff    outside 
joape  T>/hich 
her   bieast. 
»d   or   third 
e  from  the 

which  she 
description, 
rning    was 

hills  with 
zzling  rain 
3  It  sighed 
ided    inex- 

from  the 
Jive— being 
which  she 
forest;  A 
t>  littered 
'  a  more 
tthin    and 


hvlthout— could  scarcely  have  beei>  found 
Ithan  the  prison  of  Edith. 

Prawing  her  chair  close  to  the  window, 
[Edith  ."at  down  and  tried  to  think.  It 
iwas  a  difficult  matter;  for  her  head 
i  throbbed  and  ached  until  her  brain  was 
fin  a  perfect  chaps.  While  she  Slat,  she 
was  startled  to  hear  the  bolts  clumsily 
! withdrawn;  and,  raising  her  eyes,  Edith 
f  beheld  an  object  that  made  her  spring 
to  her  feet  in  terror. 

It  was  a  short,  stooping,  shriveled, 
toothless,  blear-eyed  old  woman,  palsy- 
stricken  and  frightfully  ugly.  In  her 
long,  claw-like  hands  sne  held  a  tea- 
tray  containing  Edith's  breakfast.  This, 
after  closing  the  door,  she  deposited  on 
the  table,  and  then  turned  slowly  round 
until  she  fixed  her  little,  sharp,  red  eyes 
•^n  the  shrinking  Edith.  A  cap  with  an 
enormous  frill,  that  kept  cont4nually 
flapping  about  her  face,  considerably 
heightened  her, charms;  and  this,  to- 
gether with  a  Voolen  gown,  reaching 
barely  to  her  ankles  and  so  remarkably 
narrow  that  she  evidently  found  some 
difficulty  in  v.  alking  in  it,  completed  her 
costume. 

"Here's  your  breakwis,  ma'am,"  said 
this  singular  old  crone,  in  a  voice  un- 
commonly like  the  shrill  screech  of  a 
parrot;  "there's  coffee  and  toast— too 
good,  a  great  sight,  for  such  a  chalk- 
faced  whipper-snapper  as  you  are.  Ugh! 
whatever  he  wanted  a-bringing  of  you 
here  I  can't  tell." 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Edit|j,  begin- 
ning to  recover  from  her  fright. 

"What?" 

"Who— are— you?"  said  Edith,  speak- 
ing as  loudly  as  possible,  and  fully  con- 
vinced the  old  woman  must  be  deaf. 

"Me!  Oh!  um!— yes!  Why,  I'm  Miss 
Crow,  housekeeper  and  superintendent 
for  Master  Ralph.  Yes!  um!— take  your 
breakwis,  ma'am,  will  yer?" 

"I  don't  feel  hungry,"  said  Edith;  "you 
may  take  it  away  again." 

"Hungry!"  screeched  Miss  Crow,  who 
had  the  faculty  of  only  catching  one 
word  at  a  time;  "well,  if  yer  hungry  why 
don't  you  eat — eh?" 

"I  am — not  hungry,"  said  Edith,  ex- 
erting herself  to  speak  loud,  until  she 
turned  quite  red  in  the  face. 

"Oh,  you're  not?"  cried  the  amiable 
old  lady.  "Why  couldn't  you  say  so  at 
once,  and  not  keep  me  'a-waltln', 
a-wastln'  of  my  precious  time  and  spilin' 
of  good  vlttiis?  Pugh!  I's  disgusted. 
Wait  till  Miss  Crow  trots  herself  off  her 
J'^gs  a-bringing  of  your  breakwis  ag'in — 
that's  all!" 

And.  with  a  grimace  that  made  her 
look  positively  hideous,  Miss  Crow  gath- 
ered up  the  untested  "breakwis"  and 
hobbler]  out  of  the  room. 

Left  to  herself,  Edith  resumed  her 
seat  by  the  wmdow,  inwardly  wondering 
if  this  pleasing  attendant  was  the  youngr 


girl  promised  her  by  De  Lis!  •.  She  felt 
she  was  surrounded  by  his  creatures, 
whose  hearts  were  steeled  against  heiv 
Then,  by  a  ,  natural  transition,  her 
thoughts  wandered  home  to  her  friends. 
She  felt  sure  they  were  even  then  look- 
ing for  her.  But  would  she  ever  be  dis- 
covered in  this  isolated  old  house?  Or, 
even  if  discovered,  would  not  De  Lisle 
force  her  into  a  marriage  with  him  be- 
forehand ? 

Absorbed  in  such  thoughts,  the  fore- 
noon wore  away;  and,  ^as  noon  ap- 
proached, she  was  once  more  honored  bF. 
a  visit  from  Miss  Crow,  who  came  with 
the  tray  again. 

"Here's  your  dinner,  ma'am,"  said  the 
little  old  woman,  with  her  customary 
screech.  "I  hopes  as  how  you'll  eat  it, 
and  not  go  bringing  of  me  up-stairs  for 
nothin'  again,  which  Is  what  I  ain't 
noways  used  to.  Pity  if  such  a  big  lazy 
thing  as  you  are  can't  wait  on  herself, 
and  not  go  bringing  ageable  old  women 
like  I  is  up  two  or  three  flights  of  stairs, 
with  the  rheumatiz  in  the  small  of  my 
back."  And  here  the  screech  subsided 
into  a  groan. 

"I  am  sorry  to  be.  a  trouble  to  you," 
said  Edith,  seating  herself  at  the  table. 

"Trouble!"  cried  Miss  Crow,  spitefully; 
"so  you  think  it's  no  trouble,  do  you? 
But  I'll  let  you  know  it  is.  And  Master 
Ralph  may  wait  on  you  hisself ;  though 
I  s'pose  you'd  sooner  have  a  fine  young 
fellow  like  that  to  'tend  to  you  than  an 
old  woman   like   Miss  Crow." 

Edith,  not  being  inclined  to  shout  a 
reply,  ate  her  dinner  In  silence,  while 
Miss  Crow  stood  watching  her  with  her 
red,  inflamed  eyes,  strangely  reminding 
Edith  of  the  witches  in  Macbeth. 

"Mr.  Fulph  told  me  he  was  coming  to 
see  you  in  the  course  of  half  an  hour," 
said  the  old  wdnan,  after  a  pause; 
'though  what  he  can  wan .  with  such  a 
baby-faced  thing  as  yru  are.  I  don't 
know." 

Here  Miss  Crow  paused,  as  though  she 
expected  to  be  told,  but  Edith  made  no 
reply. 

"Whafll  I  tell  him?"  inquired  the  old 
lady,  sharpl3'. 

"Nothing,"  said  Edith. 

"What?" 

"You  may  tell  him  I  don't  want  to  see 
him,"  said  Sdlth,  raising  her  voice. 

"Want  to  see  him!— hum!  hum!— want 
to  see  him!  Ye,.,  I'll  tell  him  so,"  replied 
Miss  Crow,  rather  complacently. 

"I  don't  want  to  see  him— do  you  hear? 
I  don't  want  to  see  him!"  said  Edith, 
still  more  loudly. 

Sundry  unearthly  sounds,  which  the 
old  woman  took  to  be  a  laugh,  followed 
this  reply:  and,  still  chuckling  to  her- 
self, she  gathered  up  the  things  and  left 
the  room. 

Scarcely  had  she  departed,  when  De 
Llfle  entered.    Advancing  into  the  room,' 


40 


THE   B^RMIT   OF   THE    CLIPF^. 


he  threw  himself  indolently  on  the  iouch 
and,    turning    to    Edith,    he    renidrked, 

"I'm  afraid  old  Nan  Crow  is  not  the 
most  pleasant  attendant  in  the  world. 
You  won't  be  troubled  with  her  long, 
however;  to-morrow,  Elva  Snowe  will 
take  her  place."  ^    ,^  . 

Edith  made  no  reply,  but  sat  listen- 
ing, in  haughty  silence.  • 

"The  day  after  to-morrow,  fairest 
Edith  will  make  me  the  happiest  of 
men.  I  have  made  every  arrangement 
for  our  marriage, 'Which  will  take  place 
on  that  day.  My  only  regret  is  that  it 
must  be  delayed  so  long." 

"Sir,  must  I  tell  you  again  I  will  never 
be  your  bride?"  said  Edith— a  sudden 
crimson  staining  her  fair  face,  and  th^n 
retreating,  leaving  her  paler  than  be- 
fore. 

"No!"  said  De  Lisle,  with  a  quiet  smile. 
"Never  is  a  long  time,  my  dear  Edith." 

"You  cannot  force  me  to  marry  you. 
even  though  I  am  your  prisoner,"  said 
Edith; 

.  "Can  I  not?  There  a,re  ways  of  com- 
pelling you  that  you  dream  not  of,  per- 
haps," was  the  cool  reply. 
-"Sir,  your  conduct  has  been  most  base 
and  unmanly — most  evil  and-  treacherous. 
If  you  have  one  spark  of  honor  remain- 
ing in  your  heart,  you  will  release  me!" 
pjcclaimed  Edith,  rising,  with  flushed 
cheeks  aiid  flashing  eyes. 

"Never,  Edith!"  he  said,  fiercely, 
"aever  shall  you  cross  this  threshold  un- 
less as  my  wife.  You  talk  about  honor, 
fOTsooth!  Did  I  not  love  you,  as  I  never 
cared  for  mortal  before, on  this  side  of 
heaven?  were  you  not  my  betrothed 
bride?  was  not  our  wedding-day  fixed?— 
iW^hen  lo!  a  dashing  stranger  comes 
along,  and  I  am  coolly  told  to  stand 
aside,  for  I  am  loved  no  longer!— told  to 
fitand  aside  and  wait— wait  until  my 
rival  shall  have  wormed  himself  into  the 
;good  graces  ojC  the  family,  and  become 
•your  accepted  lover!  One  consolation  Is, 
that  long  before  this  he  must  have  been 
Iiung  as  a  traitor." 

Edith  essayed  to  speak,  but  her  voice 
failed;  and,  sinking  into  a  seat,  she  bur- 
ied her  face  in  her  hands  and  wept  pas- 
sionately. 

"After  that  interview  with  yoiir 
father,"  went  on  De  Lisle,  with  increas- 
ing bitterness,  "I  urged  him  repeatedly 
tO:  revoke  his  decision,  and  insist  on  the 
marriage,  but  in  yain.  And,  at  length, 
he  commanded  me  to  drop  the  subject 
altogether,  and  told  me  I  .should  wait 
until  it  pleased  him  to  appoint  the  time. 
Tou  see,  fairest  Edith,  I  have  done  so." 
And  he  laughed  sarcastically.  "Your 
worthy  father,  may  search  until  he  Is 
tii:ed;  but  I  doubt  If  he  will  discover  you 
i>ere.  Once  my  wife,  and  he  will  not 
<7&|Se  to  proclaim  the  deeds  of  his  son-inv 
Jaw  to  the ;  world. .  YoUr  fortune  will  be 


mine.  I  will  not  attempt  to  disguise 
from  you.  Miss  Perclval,  that  this  forms 
no  unimportant  item  in  my  calculations. 
Your  fortune  once  mine,  you  may  return 
to  your  father's  house  as  soon  as  you 
please." 

"Release  me  now,"  said  Edith,  looking 
up;  "and,  since  it  is  only  my  money  you 
want,  I  will  persuade  m^-  father  to  give 
it  all  to  you." 

"Nay,  Mifs  Edith,  I  must  decline  your 
kind  offer.  I  am  inclined  to  think  your 
good  father  would  prefer  handing  me 
over  to  the  civil  authorities  rather  «than 
to  his  banker.  And  a  still  more  weighty 
consideration  remains;  you  love  the  man 
I  hate — yes,  hate!"  And  his  face  grew 
livid  with  passion.  "The  beet  revenge  I 
can  take  is,  by  marrying  you — whether 
Avith  or  without  your  consent,  matters 
not.  Thus  I  will  raise  an  insuperable 
barrier  between  you  and  gratify  my  re- 
venge." 

Edith  shuddered  involuntarily.  He 
stood  watching  her,  with  h*8  habitual 
sinister  smile.  » 

"I  thought  that  would  touch  you,"  he 
said,  with  a  sneer.  "Remember,  the  day 
after  to-morrow  is  your  wedding-morn- 
ing. The  girl  I  spoke  of  will  assist  you 
to  dress  for  your  bridal.  Au  revoir." 
And,  turning  on  his  heel,  De  Lisle  quitted 
the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

BI..VA   SNOWB. 

"I  see  a  little  merry  maiden. 

With   laughing   eye   and   sunny   hair— 
With  foot  as  free  as  mountain  fairy. 
And  heart  and  spirit  iight  as  air." 

—Anon. 

The  gray  daylight  was  fading  out  of 
the  dull  sky.  The  wind  sounded  inex- 
pressibly dreary  as  it  moaned  through 
the  dark,  fragrant  pines.  Far  in  th^ 
west,  a  red,  fiery  streak  glowed  among 
che  dark,  leaden  clouds,  like  a  burning 
line  dividing  heaven  and  earth.  Dreary 
and  sad  was  the  scene  without;  but 
more  dreary  and  sad  were  the  thoughts 
of  Edith  as  she  sat  watching  the  ap- 
proach of  night.  The  gloom  around  and 
above  was  congenial  to  her  feelings;  and, 
lost  in  thought,  she  heeded  not  the  wan- 
ing hours,  until  all  within  and  without 
was  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  pitchy  dark- 
ness. 

The  entrance  of  Nan  Crow,,  with  her 
supper  and  a  light,  rouaed  her  at  last; 
The  old  woman  seemed  unusually  cross 
and  out  of  humor;  and,  after  essaying 
in  vain  to  make  her  answer  her  quesr 
tions,  Edith  relapsed  into  silence.  With 
a  sharp  command  not  to  "sit  moping 
there  like  a  ghost,  a-buming  of  candles, 
but  to  go  to  bed,"  she  went  out,  slam- 
mimir  4he  door  violently  after. her.  Hen 
command  v/as  unheeded ;  for,  aeated  at 


TBE    BBRMIT   X>F    THE    GLlFfH. 


41 


the  wihdow— her  burning  forehead 
pressed  against  the  cold  panes,  Edith 
remained  till  morning.  It  was  a  strange 
stjene — that  long,  shadowy  room,  so  poor- 
ly furnished,  and  that  you«g_glrl  seateu 
at  the  window,  her  face  whiter  than  the 
robe  she  wore.  The  candle  fluttered  and 
burned  dimly,  with  a  long  black  wtck, 
capped  by  a  flery  crest,  until  it  went  out 
altogether,  leaving  the  room  enveloped  in 
the  deepest  gloom. 

So  passed  the  second  night  oi  Kdith's 
captivity.  Morning  fouml  her  pale, 
spirilFess,  and  utterlj'  despairing.  She 
knew  tvell  De  Lisle  would  keep  his  word. 
And  what  could  she— a  weak,  powerless 
girl— do  to  prevent  him?  Naturally  timid 
and  accustomed  to  magnify  dangers,  she 
could  see  nothing  but  despair,  look  which 
way  she  Would.  To  rebiel  would  be  use- 
less; and,  without  an  effort,  she  yielded 
t<)  titter  dejection.  At  times  she  could 
be  brave  enough,  when  laboring  under 
excitement  of  any  kind;  or  when,  after 
listening  to  her  vehement  sister,  she 
would  imbibe  part  of  her  spirit;  but  these 
rare  intervals  were  always  followed  by  a 
listlessness  and  timidity  greater  than 
before. 

The  sun  arose  In  unclouded  splendor. 
Every  trace  of  the  former  day's  dullness 
had  passed  away,  and  nature  once  more 
looked  bright  and  beautiful.  The  chirp 
of  the  birds  in  the  pine-woods  reached 
her  ear,  but  for  the  first  time  she  lis- 
tened without  pleasure.  All  was  sad  and 
desolate  within  her  heart,  and  the  joy- 
ous splendor  of  that  summer  sunrise  waa 
to  her  feelings  like  "vinegar  upon  nitre." 

Suddenly,  the  sound  of  a  gay  voice 
caroling  reached  her  ear.  It  was  such  an 
tinusual  sound  that  she  looked  out,  alto- 
gether startled  from  her  dreamy  lethargy 
of  sorrow.  What  was  her  surprise  to  be- 
hold, emerging  from  the  woods,  a  young 
girl  on  horseback.  From  the  distance  at 
which  she  sat  she  could  not  very  easily 
discern  her  features,  but  she  saw  her  sit 
on  her  hOrse  like  a  practised  rider.  Her 
Jong  hair  hung  in  braids  over  her  shoul- 
ders, tied  with  streamers  of  bright  rib- 
bon. In  one  hand  she  held  a  white  sun- 
bonnet,  swinging  it  carelessly  by  the 
strings  as  she  shouted,  rather  than  sang, 
some  wild  mountain  chorus,  or  talked  at 
intervals  tb  her  horse.  Edith  could 
plainly  hear  her,  as  her  words  cams 
borne  on  the  air: 

"Come,  Timon,  my  boy,"  she  said,  pat- 
ting her  horse  on  the  neck,  "hurry  up,  or 
'old  Nan  Crow  will  give  you  and  me  flits, 
Too  bad,  ain^'t  it,  you  and  I  have  to 
go  and  live  in  that  dismal  old  barn  of  a 
house?  But  orders  must  be  obeyed,  you 
know,  Timon.  Dreary  me!  as  that  queer 
•  old  maid  used  to  say:  'wonders  never 
will  ceasCn  I  believe!'  Who  in  the  workj 
would  ever  think  of  taking  a  bride  Xsy 
that  horrid  eld  hole?  And'  so  ,D^  Ltiste 
is  really  going  to  be  married!    Weel,  I 


never!  Father  says  she  isn't  dying 
about  him,  either— which  I  don't  wonder 
at,  I'm  sure,  for  I  can't  bear  him.  I'd 
like  tO'  see  her,  and  know  what  ray  fu- 
ture mistress  looks  like.  Come,  gee  up, 
Timon,  my  son;  I'm  anxious  to  catch  a 
glimpse  of  old  Nan  Crbw's  beautiful 
face,  and  hear  her  musical,  screeching 
voice.  Who  knows  but  we'll  soon — see 
my  lady  herself,  and  I'm  dying  to  have 
a  peep  at  her,  so  get  along,  my  boy, 
Elva's.  in  a  hurry." 

And.  urging  her  horse  into  a  quick 
canter,  the  girl  rode  off,  singing  at  the 
top  of  her  voice. 

"Who  can  she  be?"  thought  Edith— 
"Elva,  Elva!  the  name  is  familiar.  Yes, 
now  I  remember,  De  Lisle  spoke  of  send- 
ing me  a  girl  of  that  name,  Elva  Snowe, 
I  think  he  called  her.  She  spoke  of  com- 
ing here,  too,  so  it  must  be  the  same. 
I  hope  It  is;  she  will  at  least  prove  a 
more  pleasant  companion  than  that  cross 
old  woman."  "■■' •  l'^-^  - 

For  nearly  an  hour  Edith  sat  expect- 
ing to  see  her  enter,  but  in  vain.  At 
length,  just  as  she  was  about  to  desiSair 
of  .seeing  her,  the  outer  bolts  were  with- 
drawn, the  door  was  unceremoniously 
opened,  and  the  young  gtrl  ^tood  before 
her. 

Edith  fixed  her  eyes  on  the  other  arid 
scrutinized  her  from  head  to  foot.  The 
newcomer  was  small,  below  middle 
height,  round  and  plunip  in  figure,  and 
looking  to  the  best  advantage  iii  the 
crimson  silk  basque  which  she  wore.  A 
short  black  skirt,  which  conveniently 
displayed  a  pretty  little  foot  and  ankle, 
Completed  her  costume— which,  though 
looking  rather  odd  to  the  eyes  of  Edith, 
had  the  merit  of  being  very  becoming. 
Her  face  was  decidedly  pretty,  though 
browned  a  little  by  exposure  to  sun  arid 
wind.  A  low,  smooth  forehead,  bloom- 
ing cheeks  and  lips,  merry,  gray  eyes,  a 
piquant  little  nose  that  turned  up  with 
saucy  independence,  and  little,  white 
teeth,  made  up  the  tout  ensemble  of  the 
little  lady. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said,  pleasantly, 
evidently  rather  favorably  impressed 
with  the  outward  appearance  of  Edith. 
"I  have  brought  you  your  breakfast." 

"So  I  perceive,"  said  Edith.  "I  was 
afraid  I  was  about  to  be  favored  with 
another  visit  from  that  deaf  old  lady 
who  has  hitherto  attended  me." 

"Yes,  Old  Nan  Crow,"  said  the  girl, 
laughing.  "Isn't  she  a  horrid  old  case? 
I  have  the  greatest  fun  with  her  TBom6- 
times.  Did  you  ever  h  ar  such  a  voice? 
Like  a  penny  whistle,  for  all  the  world." 
Then  changing  her  tone  to  a  sharp 
screech,  painful  to  listen  to.  she  began: 
"I'm  Miss  Crow .Jtiouse keeper  arid  super- 
intendent for  Master  Ralph.  Yes/ urn?  I 
laid  awake  ail  last  ni«:ht  with  the  rh^u- 
niaiis  in  the  small  of  my  back!" 


42 


TUB    HURMIT    OF    TMt!   4JUrF8. 


m. 


u 


"That  is  she  exactly,"  said  Edith, 
with  something  lilte  a  smile  passing  over 
her  pale  face,  "though  it's  quite  abom- 
inable of  you  to  take  her  off  in  that 
manner  " 

"She  alway»3  scolds  me  from  the  time 
I  come-  here  until  I  leave,"  said  the 
other,  "and,  indeed,  I  rather  deserve  it 
sometimes,  and  it  does  one  good  to  get 
a  blowing  up  once  in  a  while.  My!  if 
she  can't  scold,  It's  a  wonder— it's  really 
a  comfort  to  hear  her,  for  every  word 
comes  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart. 
The  only  pity  is,  that  I'm  not  here  very 
often  to  listen  to  her." 

"Do  you  not  live  here?"  inquired 
Edith 

"Live  here!  Bless  you,  no!  I  wouldn't 
live  in  this  lonesome  old  place  for  any 
amount  of  money,  at  least  any  amount 
I'd  be  likely  to  get  for  doing  so.  No, 
indeed,  I  live  in  the  village,  eight  or 
nine  miles  from  here,  and  splendid  times 
we  have,  I  can  tell  you— at  least  we  had 
until  this  detestable  war  commenced, 
and  all  the  young  men  were  provoking 
enough  to  go  off  and  be  killed.  Heigho! 
Isn't  everything  still  here?  One  can't 
hear  a  thing  but  the  swaying  pines  and 
tlhe  birds,  tt's  a  splendid  day,  too.  I'd 
love  to  have  a  good  gallop  over  the  hills 
this  morning." 

"Pray,  don't  let  me  keep  you  here," 
said  Edith.  "I  wouldn't  deprive  you  of 
the  pleasure  on  any  account.  I  will  not 
need  any  attendance  during  the  day, 
Miss  Snowe — isn't  that  your  name?" 

"Yes,  Elvena  Snowe,  but  everybody 
calls  me  Elva,  for  short;  you  needn't 
mind  calling  me  Miss,  I  ain't  used  to  it, 
and  Elva  sounds  better." 

"Then,  Elva,  do  not  let  me  deprive  you 
of  that  coveted  ride.    Go,  by  all  means." 

"You're  very  good,  but  I  guess  I  won't 
mind  it  to-day.  I'll  stay  with  you  if 
you  have  no  objection.  De  Lisle  will 
be  here  by-and-by,  and  until  he«  cornea 
I  will  remain." 

"How  long  are  you  to  remain  here?" 
inquired  Edith. 

"Dear  knows,"  said  Elva,  suppressing 
a  yawn,  "not  long,  I  hope,  for  I'd  blue- 
mold,  rust,  or  something  else  equally 
dreadful,  if  I  had  to  stay  in  this  dull 
old  tomb.  Why,  everything's  as  still 
here  as  if  we  were  in  our  graves." 

"It  is  still,"  said  Edith;  "what  is  the 
oaus  "  Does  no  one  live  here  but  Misa 
Crow?" 

"Oh,  dear,  yes!'  said  Elva.'but  this  is 
a  wing  of  the  building  off  by  itself.  It*^ 
a  sort  of  double  house,  with  two  front 
doors,  and  connected  together  by  a  long 
hall.  In  the  other  end,  De  Lisle  and' 
some  of  his  men  stayt.when  they  are 
here,  and  you  have  this  part  all  tc  your- 
self. Old  Nan  is  their  only  servant,  ex- 
cept   sometimes    when    De    Lisle    brings 


pome  of  his  friends  hervj,  big-bugs,  you 
know,  English  officers;  then  I  have  to 
come  here  and  help  her." 

"Then  this  place  is  not  hidden  in  the 
woods?"  said  Edith,  "and  is  visited  by 
others   besides  De  Lisle  and  his  men?" 

"La!  yes.  Generals,  and  colonels,  and 
captains,  not  to  speak  of  lieutenants  and 
alde-de-camps,  come  here  in  drove.s, 
sometimes,  and  spend  whole  night;^  in  a 
carouse.  They  generally  stay  In  the 
other  wing  of  the  building;  this  part 
hfiSn't  been  much  used  for  years." 

"And  so  forms  a  safer  prison  for  me," 
sighed  Edith. 

"Why,  yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Elva. 
"But  I  guess  you  won't  be  here  long,  I 
heard  De  Lisle  telling  my  father  thai 
after  he  was  married  he  intended  get- 
ting your  money  and  sending  you  home." 

"Your  father!"  echoed  Edith,  "who  is 
he?" 

"Oh,  he's  only  De  Lisie's  lieutenant, 
Paul  Snowe's  his  name;  but  he  has  a 
good  deal  of  Influence  over  the  men,  and 
over  De  Lisle  himself  for  that  matter. 
Only  for  him,  you  may  be  sure,  1 
wouldn't  be  here;  for  I  hate  De  Lisle  as 
I  do  sin,  and  wouldn't  care  a  straw  for 
his  orders.  But  I'm  a  little  afraid  of 
father,  and  have  to  mind  what  he  says, 
you  know;  though  I'd  much  rather  fol- 
low my  own  sweet  will,  and  stay  in  the 
village,  and  have  fun,  than  come  here 
and  wait  on  De  Lisle  and  those  dashing 
officers  he  brings  here." 

"And  your  mother,  where  is  she?" 
asked  Edith. 

"Dead,"  said  Elva.  sadly,  "she  died 
when  I  was  a  child.  I  have  only  a  faint 
recollection  of  her,  as  a  pale,  stately 
woman,  who  used  to  come  to  my  bedside 
and  kiss  me  every  night.  So  you  see 
I  grew  up  the  best  way  I  could,  with- 
out any  one  to  look  after  me  or  nr.ake 
me  a  good  girl;  and  so  I've  got  to  be  a 
wild,  sunburnt,  good-for-nothing  romp. 
Oh,  dear,  if  mother  had  lived  I'd  have 
been  a  different  creature  from  what  I 
am.  She  loved  me,  I  know;  but  father 
never  seems  to  care  for  me,  but  rather 
to  dislike  me  than  otherwise.  I'm  like 
the  miller  of  the  Dee:  'I  care  for  no- 
body, and  nobT)dy  cares  for  me;'  so  I 
lon't  mind  a  pin  what  I  do  or  say,  since 
there's  no  one  to  be  grieved  by  It.  It 
makes  me  feel  sad  and  lonely,  too,  some- 
times." and  she  sighed  involuntarily. 

■'Oh,  Elva,  I  feel  that  I  can  love  you, 
if  you  will  let  me!"  said  Edith,  gently, 
taking  her  hand. 

"Thank  you,  dear  Miss  Pereival."  said 
Elva,  looking  up  with  glistening  eyes; 
•'I  love  you  already.  But  hark,  there's  a 
step  on  the  stairs.  That's  De  Lisle,  I 
know,  for  he  always  takes  half  the 
staircase  at  a  bound.  Qood-by  now,  I'll 
be  back  after  a  while,"  and  Elva  quit- 
ted the  room  as  De  Lisle  entered. 


Jiff-bugs,    you 
in   I    have  to 

ildden  in  tiie 
is  visited  l)y 
d  his  men?" 
colonels,  ana 
utenants  and 
in  droves, 
e  nightt^  in  a 
stay  In  the 
g;  this  part 
years." 
son  for  me," 

said  Elva. 
here  long.  I 
father  that 
ntended  get- 
?  you  home." 
ith,   "who  is 

J   lieutenant, 

it   he    has   a 

he  men,  and 

that  matter. 

be    sure,    1 

De  Lisle  as 

a  straw  for 

le  afraid   of 

hat  he  says, 

I  rather  fol- 

stay  in  the 

I    come   here 

lose  dashing 

re    is    she?" 

,  "she  died 
only  a  faint 
>ale,    stately 

my  bedside 
So  you  see 
?ould,  with- 
ne  or  nr.ake 
got  to  be  a 
:hing  romp. 
id  I'd  have 
om   what   I 

but  father 

but  rather 
e.  I'm  like 
are  for  no- 

me;'  so  I 
r  say,  since 
I  by  it.  It 
,  too,  some- 
untarily. 
n  love  you, 
ith,  gently, 

elval,"  said 
ning  eyes; 
k,  there's  a 
De  Lisle,  I 
I  half  the 
•y  now,  I'll 
Elva  quit- 
sred. 


TUB   B-BkMlT   0>'   TffE   OLirFB. 


48 


<./.-.      CHAPTER   XIV. 

AN    .UNLOOKBD-POR     INTEBRtJPTION. 

'  '*Know,  then,  that  I  have  supported  tay 
pretensions  to  your  hand  in  the  wdy  that 


best  suited  my  character." 


—Ivan  hoe. 


,  -  MGooD  morning,  fairest  Edith,"  was  De 
Lisle's  salutation,  as  he  entered.  "You 
are  looking  very  pale,  "I  fear  you  did 
not  sleep  w^ll  last  night." 

"Not  very  well,"  saM  Edith,  coldly;  "a 
.captive  seldom  sleeps  verj'  soundly  dur- 
ing the  first  nights  in  prison." 

"You  have  no  one  to  blame  for  being 
In  prison  but  yourself,  Eklith.  Had  you 
to'een  less  obstinate  and  self-willed  you 
might  now  have  been  at  home  with  your 
father." 

"Sir,  these  reproaches  sit  not  well  upon 
your  lips,"  said  Edith,  bitterly.  "I  am 
neither  obstinate  nor  self-willed",  as  you 
well  know,  but  I  oould  not  consent  to 
marry  one  whom  I  no  longer  loved." 

^'No  longer  loved,"  repeated  De  Lisle, 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  her:  "then  you  did 
lovf-  ni^  once?" 

"1  may  have  done  so,"  replied  Edith, 
her  face  suddenly  crimsoning,  "but  you 
forfeited  my  good  opinion;  and  where  I 
cannot  esteem,  I  cannot  loVe." 

"And  how,  I  pray  you,  fair  saint,'  did  I 
forfeit  your  esteem?"  said  De  Lisle, 
with  a  sneer. 

•*By  your  base,  unmanly  conduct,  sir, 
unworthy  a  man  or  a  soldier,"  replied 
Edith,  her  gentle  spirit  roused  to  anger 
by  his  taunting  words.  "I  had  heard  of 
the  merciless  cruelty  of  you  and  your 
men;  the  relentless  fury  with  which  you 
destroyed  houses  and  villages,  and  shed 
the  blood  of  unoffending  fellow  crea- 
tures, whose  only  crime  was  in  defend- 
ing their  homes.  And  could  I,  could  any 
womanthtnk  of  you  otherwise  than  with' 
fear  and  loathing  after  such  acts,  more 
fitted  foi"  savages  than  for  civilized 
men?" 

"You  seem  particularly  well  informed 
about  what  I  have  done,"  said  De  Lisle, 
sarcastically.  "Pray,  fair  lady,  how 
•much  of  this  raw-head-and-bloody-bone 
story  have  you  heard  from  Master  Fred 
Stanley?" 

"Mr.  De  Lisle,"  said  Edith,  her  fair 
face  flushing,  "I  must  beg  of  you  to 
cease-  referring  to  him.  If  you  do  not,  I 
must  decline  holding  any  conversation 
with  you." 

"Sooner  than  incur  such  a  penalty, 
pretty  one,  I  would  do* anything,"  said 
De  Lisle;  "but  before  this  time  to-mor- 
row you  will  be  my  wife — and  after  that 
I  trust  you  will  know  your  duty  to  your 
husband  too  well  to  refuse  talking  to 
him." 

"Sir,  I  will  not;  I  will  never  be  your 
wife,"   said   Edith,   passionately. 

"Oh.  it  is  all  very  well  for  you  to  ^ay 


ro,  MIsa  Percival,  blJt  how  are  ybli' to 
help  yourself?  You  are  here, my  pHi»- 
oner,  completely  in  my  power,  mirround- 
ed  by  my  people,  the  clergyman  who  Ib 
to  marry  Us  Will  be  most  discreetly  si- 
lent as  to  everytiiing  he  will  s«e  dr  hear 
—Is  {)repared  for  hysterics,  'tears,  and 
rebellton,  and  will  pay  no  attention  to 
them.  How,  then,  beautiful  Bdlth,  are 
you  to  help  yourself?" 

"God  llveth!"  said  Edith,  rising,  and 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  intense  solemnity, 
"and  I  appeal  to  Him  from  y6u— un- 
worthy the  name  of  mah."  ■ 

"The  days  of  miracles  are  past,  Edith," 
^ald  De  Lisle,  with  his  customary  mock- 
ing sneer.  "He  will  hardly  sehd  an  an- 
gel down  t^  prevent  the  marriage  of  a 
silly  girl,  "rtie  time  of  miracles  has  long 
since  passed,  fair  one." 

"But  not  a  Divfne  interposition."  said 
Edith;  "my  confidence  in  Him'  can  never 
be  shaken.  I  will  trust  in  Him,  and 
you  may  do  your  worst.  Hedven  will 
never  permit  the  happiness  of  my  life 
to  be  blighted  by  you!" 

"Bah!  bah!  bah!  are  you  silly  enough 
to  believe  such  cant,  Edith?"  said  De 
Lisle,  scornfully.  "I  thought  you  had 
more  sense.  But  time  wHl  tell;  ere  fow 
and  twenty  hours  you  will  be  my  wile 
in  spite  of  yourself,  and  then  where  wlH 
be  your  boasted  confidence  in  Heiiven?" 

"I  have  faith  to  believe  that  time  will 
never  come,"  said  £}dith.  '"But  ehouid 
It,  my  confidence  in  Heaven  wHl  be^as 
strong  as  ever." 

-"You  believe  that  time  will  never 
come,"  said  De  Lisle,  "and  may  I  ask 
what  do  you  expect  will  happen  to  pre- 
vent it?" 

"Oh,  fifty  things  might  happen,"  re- 
pled  the  voice  of  Elva,  who  entered  ab- 
ruptly, in  time  to  hear  his  remark,  and 
took  it  upon  herself  to  answer:  "The 
Yankees  might  «ome  and  set  fire  to  the 
bouse,  and  carry  her  off — or  the  minister 
might  forget  to  come— or  she  might  be 
very  sick— or  you  might  be  accidentally 
shot,  which  would  set  everything  right 
at  once.  For  my  part,  if  I  was  Miss  Per- 
cival   I'd  live  in  hopes." 

"Would  you,  indeed?"  said  De  Lisle, 
angrrily.  "Well,  I  prefer  living  in  cer- 
tainty. "And  pray.  Miss  Snowe,  what 
brought  you  here?" 

"My  feet,  of  course,"  answered  Elva. 

"Don't  be  impertinent,  minion;  answer 
my  question." 

"I  did  answer  it.  Mister  De  Lisle,  sir," 
replied  Elva. 

"What  did  you  come  here  for?"  ex- 
claimed De  Lisle,  in  a  rage;  "what  do 
you  want?" 

"Oh!  I  want  nothing,"  r''plled  Elva, 
vvrfth  provoking  indifference;  "only 
father's  arrived,  and  sent  me  here  with 
a  message  for  you." 

"What  is  It,  what  did  he  say?"  de- 
manded De  Lisle,  hurriedly. 


'I  if 


'  i; 


44 


THE    HERMIT   OF    TUE   VUfFti. 


1 


•He  didn't  say  much;  the  meBsage 
consisted  of  Just  Ave  words:  Tell  him 
it's  ail  right.'  that's  all.  It's  short  and 
sweet,  you  see.  like  a  weavers  kiss. 

The  look  of  satisfaction  that  followed 
her  words  rather  surprised  Elva.  who, 
after  watching  him  a  moment,  turned  to 
Edith,   saying   In   a    very   audible    whls- 

"Somethlng  dreb^xiful  has  happened  to 
somebody,  as  sure  as  shooting!  Nothing 
else  ever  puts  him  in  such  good  humor. 
See  how  absurdly  happy  he  looks." 

"Clear  out!"  said  De  Lisle,  who  was 
too  well  accustomed  to  the  pert  Elva  to 
get  into  a  passion  at  her  Impertinent 
words.  'Tell  Paul  I'll  see  him  by  and 
by;  and  don't  you  come  here  again  until 
you're  sent  for." 

"Nice  way,  that,  to  speak  to  a  young 
ladv,"  said  Elva.  "I  guess  Miss  Percival 
would  rather  have  me  than  you  with 
her.  after  all."  And.  turning  a  pirouette 
on  one  toe,  the  elf  disappeared. 

"Well,  Edith,"  said  De  Lisle,  turning 
to  her,  "our  marriage  will  not  have  to 
be  postponed  till  to-morrow,  as  I  feared 
It  would.  I  sent  Paul  to  see  if  the 
clergyman  could  come  to-day,  and  the 
answer  is  favorable.  Therefore,  you  will 
prepare  to  become  my  bride  this  after- 
noon." 

The  blood  rushed  for  a  moment  hotly 
to  Edith's  face,  and  then  retreated  to 
her  heart,  leaving  her  faint  and  sick. 
She  had  hitherto  looked  upon  it  as  some 
fearful  dream— now  it  arose  before  her, 
a  terrible  reality.  She  strove  to  speak, 
but  the  words  died  away  on  her  pale 
lips.  Involuntarily,  she  laid  her  hand 
on  her  heart  to  still  its  loud  throbbing?. 

"Of  course,"  went  on  De  Lisle,  calm- 
ly, "this  news  must  be  equally  pleasant 
to  both  of  us.  You,  no  doubt,  feel  anx- 
ious to  return  home— which  I  regret  you 
cannot  do  until  after  our  marriage,  for 
reasons  before  given;  and  I  know  con- 
finement in  this  lonely  place  must  neces- 
sarily be  very  irksome  to  you.  I  trust, 
therefore.  Miss  Percival,  you  will  see 
the  wisdom  of  submitting  yourself,  and 
make  no  resistance  to  the  ceremony  tak- 
ing place — a  resistance  which  you  must 
know  would  be  idle  and  useless,  since 
there  is  no  one  here  who  has  either  the 
will  or  the  power  to  prevent  it." 

"Ralph  De  Lisle,  you  cannot,  you  will 
not  be  so  base!"  said  Edith,  vehemently, 
rising.  "I  conjure  you,  by  all  you  hold 
sacred  in  heaven  and  dear  on  earth,  to 
desist'  Why  should  you  render  miser- 
able for  life  a  defenseless  girl  who  never 
injured  you?  It  is  not  because  you  really 
loye  me  that  you  wish  me  to  be  your 
wife,  but  for  my  father's  money;  and 
that  you  shall  have,  I  solemnly  promise 
you.  You  will — you  will  release  me!  I 
cannot  believe  you  are  so  deliberately, 
basely  wicked!" 

Bhe    stood    before    him    with    clasped 


hands,  flushed  cheeks,  and  glisteniiiK 
eyes— her  long,  golden  hair  floating  llkt- 
n  glory  around  her.  Never  had  slu> 
looked  so  beautiful;  and,  gazing  upon 
her,  De  Lisle  grew  more  determined 
than  ever  in  his  resolution. 

"Nay  Edith,  you  wrong  me,"  he  said. 
"Your  money.  I  confess,  is  an  induct- 
ment;  but  were  you  a  beggar,  my  afCei 
tion  for  you  is  so  strong  I  would  still 
make  you  my  wife!  I  love  you  better 
than  you  are  willing  to  give  me  credit 
for." 

"You  do  not!"  she  exclaimed,  impetu 
ously.     "When  did  man  wish  to  render 
miserable    the    woman    he    loved?     You 
know    I     dlslik<i    you — detest     you — and 
with  you  can  never  be  happy!" 

"You  will  learn  to  overcome  this  dis- 
like in  time,  fair  Edith,"  he  said,  coolly 
"At  present  it  is  quite  natural  you 
should  feel  indignant,  and  fancy  you  dis- 
like me;  but,  I  assure  you,  it  will  wear 
away.  Then,  too,  your  sUly  penchant  foi 
a  person  who  shall  be  nameless,  ren 
ders  you  !css  reconciled  to  this  union 
than  you  would  otherwise  be.  Time, 
however,  works  wonders;  and  I  have  no 
doubt  you  will  be  in  quite  a  different 
state  of  mind  in  a  few  months.  I  shall 
not  trouble  you  again  to-day  until  tht- 
hour  appointed  for  our  marriage;  but 
Elva  will  attend  you  in  the  meantime. 
Au  revoir,"  and,  rising,  De  Lisle  quitted 
the  apartment. 

Edith  sat  like  one  stunned  by  some 
sudden  blow.  Her  arms  dropped  power- 
less in  her  lap:  her  eyes  were  wide  open, 
with  a  look  of  fixed,  stony  despair.  Ev- 
ery trace  of  color  had  fadei!  from  hei 
face,  as  she  sat  like  one  suddenly  turned 
to  stone.  Prom  the  doom  before  her  she 
felt  there  could  be  no  escape.  De  Lisle 
was  all-powerful  and  she  was  utterly 
helpless.  One  by  one  the  faces  and  forms 
of  loved  ones  passed  before  her:  father, 
mother,  brother,  sister,  and — dearer  than 
all — Fred.  Where  were  they  all  now? 
Was  there  no  one  in  all  the  world  ~to 
help  her?  Sun.  and  moon,  and  stars 
seemed  fading  from  her  sky,  and  the 
future  loomed  before  her  so  dark  and 
full  of  horror  that  she  drew  back  ap- 
palled. Only  a  few  brief  hours,  and  she 
would  be  the  wife  of  De  Lisle — a  fate 
far  worse  than  death!  Hope,  there  was 
none;  and  involuntarily  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  groaned  in  the 
depth   of   her  anguish. 

She  heard  the  door  open  and  some  one 
enter:  but  shewdid  not  look  up.  Her 
hands  were  gently  removed  from  her 
face;  and.  raising  her  head,  she  met  the 
pitying  eyes  of  Elva. 

"Dear  Miss  Percival,"  she  said,  gently, 
"don't  grieve  so!  Bad  as  Ralph  De  LLsle 
is.  I  don't  think  lie'll  force  you  to  marry 
him  against  your  will." 

"He   will— he   will!"    exclaimed    Edith. 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    VLIFFH. 


45 


med    Edith, 


wringing  her  hands.  "Oh,  Elva!  What 
shall  1  do?" 

"I'm  sure  I  don't  Itnow,"  replied  Elva. 
•'I  wish  I  could  help  you;  but  it  is  quite 
impossible.  Really,  though.  I  never 
thought  he'd  be  so  mean.  It's  dreadful 
to  think  about;  but  I  don't  see  how  it 
can  be  helped." 

The  look  of  sublime  perplexity  on 
Elva's  face  bordered  closely  on  the  ri- 
diculous, and  at  any  other  time  would 
have  provoked  a  smile  from  Edith.  But 
she  only  sat  with  her  hands  pressed  to 
her  throbbing  head,  striving  in  vain  to 
think,  with  her  brain  in  such  a  whirl. 

"When  is  this  precious  wedding  to 
take  place?"  inquired  Elva,  after  a 
pauHe. 

"This  afternoon,"  answered  Edith,  hur- 
riedly. "Your  father  went  after  a 
clergyman." 

"Why,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  lit- 
tle, dried-up  anatomy,  with  a  face  like 
a  withered  pippin  and  a  nose  like  a 
boiled  beet,  who  came  home  with  father, 
is  a  clergyman?"  said  Elva,  opening  her 
eyes  in  amazement. 

"I  really  do  not  know,"  said  Edith, 
faintly. 

•Well,  if  it  is,  I'll  give  up!"  said  Elva, 
drawing  a  long  breath.  "Why,  I  saw 
him  drinking  gin  and  water  with  father, 
and  singing,  'Old  King  Cole  was  a  merry 
old  soul,'  as  jolly  as  the  worst  cut- 
throat in  De  Lisle's  gang." 

"Elva  Snowe!"  called  the  shrill  voice 
of  Miss  Crow,  at  this  moment. 

"Oh,  there's  Miss  Crow!"  said  Elva, 
jumping  up.  "I  must  go  and  see  what 
the  blessed  old  seraph  wants,  or  she'll 
drive  me  wild  with  her  screeches." 

And  Elva  vr,::>ished. 

The  houra  dri  gged  slowly  on,  and 
Edith  waited  in  vein  for  her  reappear- 
ance. The  afternoon  waned;  but  still, 
to  her  surprise,  she  came  not.  Rousing 
herself  from  the  lethargy  into  which  she 
was  failing,  she  arose  and  paced  up  and 
down  the  room,  striving  to  collect  her 
thoughts.  She  turned  to  the  window, 
and  gazed  out.  The  sun  was  setting  in 
cloudless  splendor.  The  heavens  were 
flushed  with  gold,  and  azure,  and  pur- 
ple, and  crimson;  and  amid  this  radiant 
setting  the  sun  shone  like  a  jewel  of 
fire.  A  fading  sunbeam,  as  it  passed, 
lingered  lovingly  for  a  moment  amid 
her  golden  hair.  With  clasped  hands 
and  parted  lips,  Edith  stood  entranced, 
forgetting  everything  save  the  glorious 
beauty  of  that  gorgeous  sunset. 

The  sudden  opening  of  the  door  star- 
tled her.  She  looked  up,  and  her  heart 
sank  like  iea.^  in  her  bosom  as  she  be- 
held De  Lisle. 

"Come."  he  said,  taking  her  hand— 
"the  hour  has  arrived,  and  the  clergy- 
man is  waiting." 

She  grew  taint  and  dizzy  at  his  words, 


and    was    forced    to    grasp    his   arm    for 
support. 

"Let  me  assist  you,"  he  aaid,  kindly, 
as  he  placed  his  arm  around  her  waist 
and  drew  her  with  him. 

She  drew  back  involuntarily — her  lips 
parted,  but  no  sound  came  forth  as  she 
lifted  her  eyes  in  a  voiceless  appeal  to 
his  face. 

"Nonsense,  Edith!"  he  said,  almost  an- 
grily—"you  must  come.  Have  I  not  told 
you  resistance  is  useless?" 

He  drew  her  forcibly  with  him  as  he 
spoke.  Quitting  the  room,  they  crossed 
a  long  hall,  descended  a  flight  of  wind- 
ing stairs,  which  led  them  to  another 
hall,  similar  to  that  above.  Opening  one 
of  the  many  doors  that  flanked  it  on 
either  side.  De  Lisle  led  his  almost  faint- 
ing companion  into  a  room,  which  she 
saw  indistinctly,  as  in  a  dream,  filled 
with   people. 

The  clergyman,  book  in  hand,  stood 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  room.  At  a  lit- 
tle distance  stood  the  man,  Paul— the 
same  individual  seen  by  Fred  in  the 
music-room  of  Percival  Hall.  ~  Near  him 
stood  Elva,  pity  and  indignation  strug- 
gling for  the  mastery  on  her  pretty  face. 
Old  Nan  Crow,  grinning  and  chuckling, 
and  evidently  In  a  sublime  state  of  beat- 
itude, was  perched  on  a  chair  in  the  cor- 
ner. Various  other  individuals — mem- 
bers of  De  Lisle's  Tory  band — were  scat- 
tered round  the  room,  watching  poor 
Edith  with  mingled  curiosity  and  ad- 
miration. 

Supporting  the  slight  form  of  his  com- 
panion, De  Lisle  led  her  to  Vhere  stood 
the  clergryman. 

"Go  on,  sir,"  said  De  Lisle,  briefly,  "we 
are  ready." 

He  opened  his  book,  and  already  had 
the  ceremony  commenced,  when  a  sud- 
den noise  broke  upon  their  ears,  and 
startled  all  to  their  feet  in  consterna- 
Uon. 

Shouts,  cries,  yells  and  the  report  of 
firearms,  mingled  together  In  wild  con- 
fusion, resounded  without.  Ere  any 
one  could  move,  a  man,  wounded  evil 
bleeding,  rushed  in  and  fell  lifeless  »i, 
the  feet  of  De  Lisle. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

THB   PRISONERS. 

"A  careless  set  they  were,  in  whose  bold 

hands 
Swords  were  like  toys." 

For  a  few  moments  all  stood  spell- 
bound, gazing  in  silence  and  consterna- 
tion in  one  another's  face,  while  the  noise 
and  uproar  without  seemed  still  increas- 
ing. Oaths  shouted,  the  clash  of  swords, 
and  the  report  of  firearms  united  in 
fierce  discord.  So  completely  unexpected 
was  the  surprise  that  all  stood  looking 
at  one  another  and  at  their  fallen  com- 


iiil 


(6 


THE    UEUMir    Of    THE    OLlFFki. 


>tfl 


i 


» 


ill 


11 


rade  In  speechless  wonder.  But  De 
Liiste'a  presence  of  mind  never  forsook 
him— the  true  state  of  the  case  seemed 
to  Hash  upon  him  instantly— and,  turning- 
to  £lva,  he  said,  hurriedly: 

"Condoict  Miss  Perclval  to  her  cham- 
ber, and,  whatever  happens,  see  that 
she  does  not  escape. "  Then,  turning  to 
the  others,  he  called;  "There  Is  danger 
without!     Follow  me!" 

And  as  he  spoke,  he  disappeared 
through  the  open  door. 

The  men  rushed  pell-mell  after  him, 
and  in  a  few  moments  the  room  was  de- 
serted, save  by  the  clergyman,  Edith, 
Elva,  and  Miss  Crow.  Edith  stood  lis- 
tening breathlessly,  while  her  heart  once 
more  began  to  throb  with  hope.  De 
Lisle's  enemies  were  her  friends,  and  she 
might  yet  be  free  once  more. 

Nan  Grow  was  the  first  to  speak.  Turn- 
ing to  Elva,  who  stood  listening  eagerly 
to  the  sound  of  the  conflict  without,  she 
said: 

"What  are  you  a-standlng  there  for, 
like  a  fool?  Go  'long  with  you,  and  take 
her  off  to  her  room,  as  Mister  Ralph 
told  you." 

"Yes.  Come,  Miss  Perclval,"  said 
Elva;  "there  may  be  danger  in  remain- 
ing here.  Let  me  assist  you— you  seem 
week  and  faint." 

She  passed  her  arm  round  her  waist, 
and  led  her  from  the  room.  Wrought  to 
the  highest  pitch  of  suspense  and  anx- 
iety. Edith  tottered  and  was  obliged  to 
lean  on  her  companion  for  support. 

"Oh,  Miss,  Perclval,  who  do  you  sup- 
pose they  can  be?"  inquired  Elva,  when 
they  reached  the  apartment  of  Edith. 

"My  friends,  I  feel  certain,"  said  Edith, 
pressing  her  hands  on  her-  heart  to  still 
its  tumultuous  throbblngs- "who,  hav- 
ing missed  me,  by  some  means  discov- 
ered that  I  am  here.  Great  heaven, 
Elva,  listen  to  those  terrible  sounds 
without!"  said  Edith,  with  a  shudder. 

"The  conflict  seems  to  grow  more  des- 
perate each  moment,"  said  Elva,  listen- 
ing breathlessly. 

The  noise  and  confused  din  of  the  light 
were  Indeed  momentarily  growing  more 
violent.  Almost  wild  with  excitement, 
Edith  paced  up  and  down  the  room, 
striving  to  catch  some  sound  by  which 
she  could  Judge  which  party  was  the 
vict.>r.  But  she  listened  in  vain — nothing 
met  her  ear  but  a  discordant  din.  In 
which  the  cries  of  all  were  mingled  in 
indiscriminate  confusion. 

Per  upward  of  an  hour  the  strife  con- 
tinued, and  then  suddenly  all  grew  still. 
They  could  hear,  for  a  time,  the  sound 
of  many  feet  passing  and  repassing 
through  the  different  rooms  and  pass- 
ages; but  gradually  this  died  away,  and 
was  followed  by  a  silence  so  deep  and 
ominous  that  the  young  girls  looked  on 
each  other,  pale  with  undefined  fear. 

'-Oh.  this  suspense!— this 'suspense!    It 


is  killing  me!"  said  Edith,  sinking  Intu 
a  chair  and  covering  her  face  with  her 
hand. 

"De  Lisle  must  have  conquered!"  ex- 
claimed Elva,  "or  your  friends  would 
be  here  before  now." 

"The  will  of  Heaven  be  done,"  cam<» 
from  the  pale  lips  of  Edith— while  the 
hope  that  until  this  moment  had  ani- 
mated her  heart  died  out  in  deepest  de- 
spair. 

"What  can  this  sudden  silence  mean?" 
said  Elva.  "It  is  not  their  customary 
Avay  of  conducting  themselves  after  p. 
victory.  I  cannot  stay  here — I  must  go 
and  see." 

"Let  r.ie  go  with  you!"  plea('.d  Edith. 

"No,  no — you  must  stay  here!"  ex- 
claimed Elva,  hurriedly.  'To  go  with 
me  would  be  dangerous.  I  will  return 
Immediately.  Do  try  and  restrain  your 
Impatience  for  a  short  time,  and  you 
will  hear  all." 

She  left  the  room  as  she  spoke,  and 
Edith  was  alone  In  the  profound  silence 
and  rapidly  deepening  gloom.  It  was 
a  calm,  starless  night.  Without,  In  the 
gray  dusk,  the  tall,  swaying  pine  trees 
looked  like  dim,  dark  specters.  The 
shrill  cry  of  the  whip-poor-will  and 
katydid  came  at  Intervals  to  her  ears; 
and  once  the  hoarse  scream  of  a  raven 
broke  the  stillness,  sending  a  thrill  of 
superstitious  terror  to  the  heart  of 
Edith.  Each  moment  seemed  an  age. 
until  the  return  of  Elva.  Unable  to  sit 
still,  in  her  burning  Impatience,  Edith 
paced  rapidly  up  and  down  the  rpom— 
her  excitement  lending  to  her  feeble 
frame  an  unnatural  strength.  There 
was  a  wild,  burning  light  in  her  eye, 
and  a  hot,  feverish  flush  on  her  face 
that  betokened  the  tumult  within.  Her 
head  ached  and  throbbed  with  an  in- 
tensity of  pain;  but  she  hardly  noticed  it 
in  the  fierce  agony  of  impatience  she 
endTired. 

She  counted  the  hours  as  they  passed 
on;  midnight  came,  but  Elva  was  ab- 
sent still.  She  seemed  almost  like  a 
^nanlac  in  her  maddening  impatience,  as 
she  trod  wildly  up  and  down  the  long 
room.  "She  will  not  come  to-night!" 
was  ringing  in  her  ears,  as  she  clencned 
her  small  hands  together  so  fiercely  that 
the  nails  sank  into  the  quivering  palhis 
until   they  bled. 

Her  quick  ear  at  last  caught  the  sound 
of  a  rapid,  excited  footstep  without.  She 
sprang  forward,  breathing  heavily  in 
her  impatience,  when  the  door  opened, 
and  Elva,  bearing  a  lamp  in  her  hand, 
entered. 

Placing  the  lamp  on  the  table,  Elva 
drew  a  long  breath,  and,  with  a  mut- 
tered "Oh,  dear!"  fiung  herself  into  a 
seat.  Her  long  hair  was  streaming 
wildly  over  her  shoulders;  her  face  was 
very  pale;  her  dress  disordered  and 
stained  with  blood. 


THH    HERMIT    OF    THE    VLIFF8. 


411 


.  sinking  into 
face  with  her 

iquered!"  ex- 
riends    would 

done,"  canjf* 
th— while  the 
ent  had  ani- 
n  deepest  de- 

lence  mean?" 
Ir  customary 
Jives  after  p. 
e— I  must  go 

lear'.d  Edith, 
here!"  ex- 
'To  go  with 
I  vvlll  return 
restrain  your 
ne,    and    you 

^  spoke,  and 
'ound  silence 
3m.  It  was 
hout,  In  the 
g  pine  trees 
cters.  The 
)or-will  and 
to  her  ears; 
I  of  a  raven 

a  thrill  of 
e  heart  of 
led  an  age. 
rnable  to  sit 
lence,  Bdltn 
the  rpom — 

her  feeble 
gth.  There 
In  her  eye, 
)n  her  face 
vlthln.  Her 
vith  an  In- 
ly noticed  It 
atlence   she 

they  passed 
'^a  was  ab- 
lost  like  a 
patience,  as 
n  the  long 
to-night!" 
lie  clencned 
lercely  that 
ring  palms 

t  the  sound 
ithout.  She 
heavily  In 
lOr  opened, 
her  hand, 

able,  EJlva 
th  a  mut- 
lelf  Into  a 
streaming 
[*  face  was 
iered    and 


"Elva!  Elva!  Speak!  What  haa  hap- 
p<.ied?"  inquirod  Edith,  In  a  voice  husky 
with   deep   emotion. 

"Oh,  Just  what  1  told  you!  De  Lisle 
iind  hiR  villainous-looking  set  have  con- 
»iuered!"    exclaimed    Klva,    impatiently. 

For  u  time  nothing  could  be  heard  but 
the  labored  breathing  of  Edith.  She 
strove  to  ask  another  question;  but 
though  her  Up?  moved,  they  could  not 
utter  the  words.  Elva  sat  with  her  lips 
t'ompressed  and  her  eyes  tlxed  moodily 
on  the  floor.  Looking  up,  at  length,  and 
seeing  the  expression  on  Edith's  face, 
Hhe  said,  in  reply  to  it: 

"Yes,  they  were  your  friends — I  heard 
De  Lisle  say  so.  There  were  only  seven 
of  them  altogether;  but  they  fought  des- 
perately, and.  1  believe,  killed  half  of 
De  Lisle's  band  They  were  conquered, 
however,  and  killed — with  the  exception 
of  those  who  appeared  superior  to  the 
rest,  and  whom  De  Lisle  said  he  would 
reserve  for  a  more  terrible  fate.  One 
comfort  Is,"  added  Elva,  flinging  back 
ner  hair  almost  fiercely,  "Old  Nick  will 
pay  him  with  interest  for  all  this  some 
of  these  days!" 

Edith  did  not  exclaim  nor  cry.  Her 
lace  was  only  a  shade  whiter,  her  eyes 
dilated  with  a  look  of  unspeakable  hor- 
ror, her  voice,  when  she  spoke,  sounded 
unnaturally  deep  and  hoarse. 

"Did  you  hear  what  were  tjie  names 
(if  those  three?"  she  asked. 

Elva  looked  up  In  alarm  at  the  strange 
sound  of  her  voice. 

"One,  the  youngest  of  the  three,  I 
heard  called  Gus,  I  thjnk;  and'  another 
looked  so  much  like  >ou  I  think  he  must 
be  your  brother.  Bu<  the  third — he  was 
«»plendld;  he  looked  like  a  prince — so  tall, 
and  dark,  and  handsome.  He  was 
wounded,  too,  but  he  walked  in  looking 
as  proud  and  scornful  on  De  Lisle  as 
though  he  were  a  king  and  De  Lisle  his 
slave.  I  never  paw  such  a  look  of  in- 
tense, fiendish  hate  and  triumph  on  any 
face  as  De  Lisle's  wore  when  he  looked 
on  him.  They  are  now  confined  In  sep- 
arate rooms  at  the  other  side  of  the 
house,  though  I  fancy  they  will  soon 
leave  It  for  a  narrower  and  darker 
prison.  Oh,  Miss  Perclval,  I  have  had 
to  look  on  such  fearful  sights  to-night! 
I  have  a  little  knowledge  of  surgery,  and 
I  was  obliged  to  bind  up  those  fearful 
wounds.  Ugh!"  and  Elva  shuddered  con- 
vulsively. 

There  was  no  reply  from  Edith,  who 
stood  like  one  suddenly  turned  to  stone. 
Her  brother  and  cousin  were  in  the 
power  of  the  merciless  De  Lisle — and 
that  other!  there  was  but  one  man  In  the 
world  to  whom  Elva's  description  could 
apply — one  dearer  than  life — whom  she 
never  expected  to  see  again.  And  he — 
would  De  Lisle  let  him  live  to  see  the 
sun  again?  ' 

"De    Lisle    is    going   away   somewhere 


to-mornjw."  uald  Elva,  looking  up,  after 
a  pause.  "He  received  a  letter  a  few 
hours  ago  which  will  take  him  off- 
thank  goodness!  I  suppose  he  will  see 
you  before  he  leaves,  and  tell  you  when 
he  will  return." 

"Elva!"  exclaimed  Edith,  suddenly, 
"If  De  Lisle  leaves  here,  why  can  we 
not  make  our  escape  during  his  absence? 
You  can  aid  us,  can  you  not?" 

"I  scarcely  know,"  said  Elva,  thought- 
fully. "I  might  aid  you,  it  Is  true;  but 
UH  father  is  commander  here  until  De 
Lisle's  return,  he  will  have  to  be  an- 
swerable for  it.  Beside,  you  will  all  be 
very  carefully  guarded;  and  I  fear,  were 
any  attempt  to  escape  discovered.  It 
would  be  worse  for  us.  De  Lisle  might 
marry  you  Immediately,  in  spite  of  all 
obstacles;  and  as  for  the  others — well,  1 
wouldn't  give  much  for  their  chance  of 
life  now,  but  any  such  attempt  would  be 
their  death-warrant!" 

"Then  escape  is  Impossible,  and  there 
is  no  hope  but  In  the  grave!"  said  Edith, 
sadly. 

"Oh,  do  not  say  It  Is  Impossible!"  said 
Elva.  "Indeed,  the  more  I  think  of  It, 
the  less  difficult  It  seems.  Let's  see"— 
and  she  leaned  her  head  thoughtfully  on 
her  hand— "De  Lisle  will  probably  be  ab- 
sent a  week  or  so.  Before  the  end  of 
that  time  I  may  find  some  opportunity 
for  throwing  the  men  off  their  guard, 
and  setting  you  free.  I  have  no  doubt 
I  could  easily  effect  your  escape;  but  it 
may  be  more  difficult  to  liberate  your 
friends.  However,  If  I  cannot,  you  can 
Inform  your  friends  where  they  are, 
and  let  them  come  here  and  free  them 
by  force  of  arms." 

"But,  Elva,  the  moment  De  Lisle 
would  discover  my  escape,  do  you  not 
think  he  would  wreak  his  vengeance  on 
those  remaining  In  his  power?  You,  too, 
dear  Elva— what  would  he  do  to  you?" 

"Oh!  as  for  me,  I  ain't  afraid  of  him— 
only  I  don't  like  to  get  father  Into  trou- 
ble; but  as  there  is  no  alternative,  he'll 
ha  re  to  run  the  risk,  and  I'll  set  you 
free  If  I  can.  But  your  friends — yes.  It 
would  be  very  dangerous  for  them  to  be 
here  after  your  fiight  is  discovered.  I 
must  think.  I  have  no  doubt  I  can  hit 
on  some  plan  to  get  the  whole  of  you 
cut  of  his  power.  And  If  I  do,  won't  It 
be  as  good  as  a  play  to  see  De  Lisle! 
Oh,  won't  he  rage,  though,  and  blow  us 
all  sky  high  to  think  he  has  been  out- 
witted by  a  girl!  La!  I  think  I  see 
him." 

And  Elva,  changing  in  a  moTient  from 
seriousness  to  gayety.  laughed  outright 
at  the  vision  that  rose  before  her  mind's 
eye. 

"Do  you  think  you  see  him,  minion?" 
suddenly  exclaimed  a  low,  fierce  voice, 
that  made  both  spring  to  their  feet  in 
terror.     The  door  was  pushed  open,  and 


48 


THE    HERMIT    Of    THK    OUtfti. 


^llli 


De   Ll»le,   pale   with   rage,   Rtood   before 
them.  „     , 

"Oh,  well,  you  heard  ub,  did  you?  I 
never  had  a  high  opinion  of  you,  and 
I'm  not  HurprlHed  to  nnd  you  playing  the 
eavesdropper!"  exclaimed  Elva.  dtflant- 

Jy. 

"By  all  the  fiends  In  flames,  girl,  you 
shall  repent  this!" 

"Shall  I.  Indeed!  That  for  you,  Mr. 
De  Lisle!"  said  the  audacious  K\va, 
snapping  her  fingers  in  his  very  face. 
"Leave  the  room,  you  Impudent" — 
"Impertinent,  outrageous,  abandoned 
young  woman— chlng  a  ring,  a  ring, 
chaw!"  sang  the  elf,  making  a   whirl. 

"You  shall  never  remain  another  night 
in  this  house"— 

"Delighted  to  hear  It,"  again  Inter- 
rupted Elva,  with  a  profound  courtesy. 
"Silence?  Who,  then,  will  help  this 
fair  lady  or  her  lover  to  escape?"  said 
De  Lisle,  with  a  look  of  triumphant  mal- 
ice gleaming  in  his  eyes. 

"Heaven  helps  those  who  help  them- 
selves!" said  Elva. 

"Well,  I  fancy  Heaven  will  not  trouble 
Itself  about  this  affair.  And  now,  miss, 
the  sooner  you  leave  this  room  and  house 
the  better,"   said  De  Lisle. 

"Surel>,  Mr.  De  Lisle,  you  will  allow 
Elva  to  remain  with  me?"  said  Edith, 
speaking  now  for  the  first  time. 

"No.  madam,  I  will  not,"  said  De  Lisle, 
sternly,  "after  listening  to  that  ingen- 
ious plot.  I  shall  take  care  that  every 
means  of  escape  is  cut  off.  Leave  her 
with  you  forsooth!  Do  you  think  me  a 
fool?" 

"Think!"  repeated  Elva;  "not  she.  In- 
deed; she  knows  you  to  be  one." 

"WUl  you  leave  the  room,  or  shall  I 
turn  you  out?"  ex<!laimed  De  Lisle,  an- 
grily. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself,"  said  Elva, 
coolly.  "I'll  go  myself  and  be  thankful 
to  get  out  of  this  dismal  old  tomb.  Good- 
l>y,  Miss  Perclval;  keep  up  your  spirits. 
Old  Nick' 11  twist  De  Lisle's  neck  for  this 
by  and  by— a  blessing  for  which  I  in- 
tend to  pray  night  and  morning.  Don't 
get  into  a  rage,  my  dear  sir,  as  I  see 
you  are  going  to;  it  spoils  your  beauty, 
of  which  you  have  none  to  spare."  And, 
casting  upon  him  a  look  of  withering 
contempt,  Elva  left  the  room  and  ran 
downstairs. 

For  a  few  moments  after  her  depart- 
ure De  Lisle  walked  up  and  down,  as  if 
to  cool  the  Storm  of  passion  into  which 
the  ta^mtlng  words  of  Elva  had  thrown 
him.  B^dith  sat  pale  and  motionless .  in 
her  seat. .  Pausing  at  last  before  her, 
he  said,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  sarcasm: , 

"Well,  Miss  Perclval,  I  see  you  can 
plot  better  than,  I  ever  gave  you  credit 
for.  How  unfortunate  I  chanced  to  spoil 
your  pretty  little  scheme!.. After  all,  you 
see,  Providence  seems  to  favor  me  more 
than  .you.     Do  you  not  suppose  It.  was 


'divine  Ititerposttlon'  that  so  providen- 
tially sent  tne  here  in  time  to  discover 
your  plans?" 

With  the  determination  of  not  answer- 
ing him,  Edith  sat  listening  In  silence. 

"You  do  not  answer,"  he  went  on.  In 
the  same  Ironical  tone,  after  waiting  a 
moment. 

"It  Is  Just  as  well;  silence  gives  assent 
J  know  you  will  regret  to  hear  that  busi- 
ness of  Importance  calls  me  away  for  a 
few  days,  thereby  delaying  our  mar- 
riage; but  at  the  end  of  that  time  I  will 
have  the  happiness  of  claiming  you  as 
my  bride.  I  scarcely  regret  the  hasty 
Interruption  we  met  with  a  few  hours 
ago.  as  it  will  permit  me  to  invite  a  few 
friends  of  yours  to  assist  at  the  cere- 
mony. Mr.  Frederic  Stanley,  who  will 
shortly  follow  his  frienKUi  to  a  better 
wf)rid.  will  be  present  to  witness  our 
nuptials,  fairest  Edith,  and  take  his  last 
farewell  of  my  bride.  He  will,  doubtless, 
feel  happy  during  his  last  moments, 
when  he  knows  the  lady  he  professes  to 
love  Is  the  happy  wife  of  another." 

He  paused,  and  gltinced  with  a  look  of 
malignant  triumph  at  Edith,  who  sat 
quivering  like  an  aspen  in  her  chair. 

"Yes,  fairest  Edith,"  he  went  on,  "my 
hour  of  triumph  has  come.  Ere  five 
suns  rise  and  set,  he  lor  whom  you 
would  willingly  die  will  hahg  a  discolored 
corpse  between  heaven  and  earth,  and 
you  will  be  my  wife.  No  power  on  earth 
can  save  you;  if  an  angel  from  heaven 
were  to  descend  and  plead  for  you  both, 
I  would  refuse." 

She  lifted  her  head,  and  De  Lisle  saw 
a  face  so  full  of  horror,  with  such  a  look 
of  utter  anguish  and  despair,  that  jfie 
started  back  appalled.  She  did  not  see 
him;  her  eyes  were  gazing  steadily  for- 
ward, fixed,  glazed,  and  rigid.  She  only 
saw  the  vision  his  words  had  conjure^j 
up— herself  the  wife  of  the  living  demon 
beplde  her.  and  he  whom  ahe  loved  dying 
in  agony  the  death  of  a  malefactor.  So 
rigid,  so  unnatural,  so  full  of  speechless 
^orror  was  her  look,  that,  alarmed  for 
the  effect  of  his  words,  De  Lisle  sprang 
to  her  .side.,  exclaiming: 

"Edith!  Edith  1  Good  heavens!  do  not 
look  so  wildly.  Edith!  look  up— speak  to 
me!" 

The  hand  he  held  was  cold  as  ice.  Her 
head  dropped  on  her  breast,  her  eyes 
closed,  and  she  fainted  entirely  away. 

Terrified  beyond  measure,  De  Lisle 
raised  her  in  his  arms,  and  laid  the  ap- 
parently lifeless  form  on  the  bed,  and 
sprang  downstairs  at  a  bouqd  in  search 
of  Elva.  He  found  that  young  lady  in 
a  violent  altercation  with  Nan  Crow— 
who.  In  spite  of  ali  EUva's  vehement 
threats  and  protestations,  positively  re- 
fused to  let  her  out  until  morning.       .  - 

"Go  upstairs!  gol— Mleis  Perclval  has 
fainted!"  exclaimed.  De  I^isle,  hurriedly, 


TBB   BaHMIT   Or   TBK   CUWyB. 


Icatchlnv    Klva'B    arm    In    bin    haate    to 
[puHh   her  ulonR. 

WrtrnchInK  ht^r  arm  violently  from  his 
graap,  and  catKlnK  upon  him  a  Kiance 
of  cunuentrutod  contempt  and  hatred, 
Eiva  pasHed  him,  and  flew  rather  than 
ran  upatalrH  to  Edith's  room. 

Bhe  Htill  lay  lifeleHH  upon  the  t>ed. 
Elva  opened  her  druHa  and  began  chaf- 
ing her  handtt  and  templeu.  Long  hIiu 
labored  In  vain— no  sign  of  life  was 
there,  and  something  almost  akin  to  a 
feeling  of  pleasure  entered  the  heart  of 
p]lva  as  the  conviction  that  Edith  had 
escaped  the  power  of  De  Lisle  forced 
itself  upon  her.  But  life  was  not  ex- 
tinct—a -  few  hard-drawn,  laboring 
breaths— a  sudden  fluttering  at  her 
heart,  and  >ie  long  lushes  were  lifted, 
and  the  <  udless  blue  eyes  bought  the 
t)right  face  of  Elva. 

"My  dear,  dear  Miss  Perclval,  I 
thought  you  .would  never  look  on  any 
one  again!"  exclaimed  Elva,  as  she 
soothingly  pushed  back  the  bright  hair 
off  Edith's  face. 

"You  here,  Elva?"  exclaimed  Edith, 
vacantly.  I  thought— I  thought— where 
is  he?"  she  said,  with  a  sudden  look  of 
terror. 

"Downstairs,  the  horrid  wretch!"  ex- 
claimed Elva,  passionately. 

"I  thought  he  had  sent  you  away?" 
fcald  Edith. 

"Bo  he  did,  and  I  am  going,  too;  but 
when  you  fainted  he  sent  me  here  to  at- 
tend to  you.  I  am  sorry  to  leave  you. 
Miss  Perclval,  but  you  see  I  must  go." 

"Oh,  it  don't  matter!"  said  Edith, 
wearily;  "it  la  all  the  same  to  me." 

Elva  looked  hurt— so  much  so  that 
Edith  noticed  It,  and,  laying  her  hand  on 
ners,  she  said: 

"Dear  Elva,   don't  be  offended.     I  di  1 
not  mean  to  hurt  your  feelings,   but  for 
tlie  few  days  I  have  to  remain.  It  mat 
ters  little  who  attends  me." 

"Are  you  going  away?"  asked  Elva, 
in  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  hope  so." 

"With  De  Lisle?  "  * 

"No." 

"Why,  are  you  not  going  to  marry 
him?" 

"No." 

"No!"  repeated  Elva,  beginning  to 
think  her  mind  wandered;  "how  will  you 
avoid  it?" 

"Elva,  I  shall  die!" 

"You    will   not   commit   suicide?"    said 
Elva,  shrinking  back  in  horror. 
'  "There  will   be   no   necessity,    Elva;    I 
shall  die." 

"Dear  lady,  I  trtist  not.  Heaven  is 
merciful,  and  there  may  be  happy  days 
in  store  for  you  yet.  Before  morning 
dawns,  night  is  ever  darkest.  Do  not 
give  way  to  despair,  but  trust  in  Heav- 
en."   '■"•■••  •■■  '     -' 

^TTou  o«in  go  n&w,"  said  the  voice  of 


r>e  Lisle,  as  he  nttHid  in  the  doorway; 
"your  liorKie  awaits  y«»u  at  the  door." 

He  imuHed,  and  drew  back  to  allow 
her  to  pans. 

Pressing  a  klsa  on  Hdlth'a  brow,  she 
arose,  and,  whispering  in  her  ear  the 
one  word,  "Hope!"  ahe  left  the  room. 

As  she  passed  De  I^isle,  she  cast  upon 
him  a  look  of  j^uch  dark,  withering 
scorn  that  be  absolutely  quailed  bt'f«»r© 
her.  Passing  dt»wn  the  stairs  and 
through  the  numerous  empty  rooms,  »»b» 
left  the  house,  sprang  U|>on  the  back  of 
Tlmun,  and  In  a  few  momenta  waa  lost 
to  sight  among  the  trees. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

JOB    SMITH. 

"DoMt  deem  that  uught  can  hide  in  beggar 
rags 
A  heart  so  bold  as  mine? 
And  diX'atn'st  thou  aught  of  common  dan- 
ger now 
Can  Hcare  me  from  my  purpose?" 

—Barry  Cornwall. 

To  explain  how  the  friends  of  Edith 
discovered  her  prison.  It  is  neoesaary  to 
retrace  our  steps  a   little.  » 

For  an  hour  or  two  after  her  depart- 
ure with  De  Lisle,  Major  Perclval 
wallced  thoughtfully  up  and  down  the 
broad  plaeza,  debating  within  himself 
whether  It  Vk'ere  better  to  wait  or  com- 
pel Edith  to  fulfill  her  engaKement.  The 
words  of  Fred  Stanley  had  thrown  a  new 
light  on  the  subject,  and  he  f«lt  con- 
vlnceti  that  her  affection  for  him  was 
the  cause  of  her  refusal.  To  marry  or 
not  to  marry,  therefore,  was  the  ques- 
tion; and,  in  a  state  of  unusual  inde- 
cision, the  major  debated  the  caSe  i»ro 
and'  cfin.  '^ 

Whil6  thus  engaged  Nell  came  run- 
ning up  the  stairs  and  stood  beside  hlih: 

"Papa,  Where's  Edith?"  ' 

•'Out  riding  with  De  Lisle." 

"With  D^  Lisle?"  And  Nell's  eye8 
opened  to  their  wld68t  extent  with 
ama-zement.  .  - 

"Eh?  What's  that?  "  said  the  majof. 
turning  round  sharply. 

"Nothing,  sir,"  said  Nell,  demurely, 
"but  I  really  thought  Ralph  De  Ijlsle 
was  the  last  person  Edith  would  go  any- 
where with.'' 

"And  why  not.  Miss  Impertinence? 
Whom  should  she  go  with.  If  not  with 
her  future  husband?" 

"Why,  papa,  I  thought  Edith  refused 
to  fulfill  her  engagement?**  - 

"We'll  make  her  fulfill  it!"  was  the 
short,  .«»harp  arftJ  decislYO  reply. 

"Hem-m^m!  perhaps  isoV  said  Nell, 
with  a  Scarcely  perceptible  srtlle,  "but 
If  I  had  been  she,. I  know  I'd  not  have 
gone  with  De  Lisle  to-night."   v  • 

"You  wouldn't?"-  And  a  storm  began 
to  gather  in  the  major's  eyes.  "Why, 
may  I -ask?"  '  ^  "" 


r4m 


*»i 


so 


TBE    HERMIT   OF    THE    CLIFFH. 


"Oh,  I  don't  know;  I  wouldn't  satisfy 
liim  so  far;  besides,  he  might  try  to  run 
away  with  me,  or  something.  I  wouldn't 
trust  him." 

The  words  were  spoken  thoughtlessly; 
but  the  major  gave  a  sudden  start,  and 
stood  silent.  Nell  left  him,  and  tripped 
downstairs  to  join  Gus  in  the  garden, 
leaving  liim  to  his  own  reflections. 

An  hour  passed  away;  Nell  and  Gus 
left  the  garden  and  piazza  for  the  cool, 
pleasant  parlor;  but  the  major  still  re- 
mained watching  for  the  arrival  of 
Edith  and  De  Lisle.  Another  hour 
passed  on,  and  still  they  came  not.  The 
major  began  to  feel  anxious  and  angry 
at  the  prolonged  absence.  His  anxiety 
began  to  contribute  itself  to  the  other 
members  of  the  family,  as  another  hour 
wore  cway  without  them.  A  tif^usand 
conjectures  were  formed  as  to  the  cause 
of  this  unaccountable  absence,  but  none 
si^emed  satisfactory.  As  midnight  ap- 
proached, uneas'iness  changed  into  real 
alarm;  and  the  major  and  Gus,  unable 
to  endure  the  suspense  longer,  mounted 
their  horses  and  rode  off  in  the  direc- 
tion the  absentees  ha'^  taken. 

A  sleeplfeps  night  was  passed  in  Perci- 
val  Hall.  Early  in  the  morning  both 
returned  from  their  fruitless  search, 
weary  and  dispirited.  No  clew  to  their 
A 'hereabouts  could  be  discovered;  and 
Ai'  gazed  into  one  another's  faces,  pale 
with  terror. 

Half  an  hour  after  their  return,  a  ser- 
vant entered  bearing  a  note  which,  he 
said,  had  been  given  him  by  a  man,  who 
immediately  departed.  The  major 
glanced  at  the  superscription,  and  rec- 
ognized the  bold,  free  hand  of  De  Lisle. 
Tearing   it   open,    he   read, 

"My  Dear  Sir:— As,  for  wise  reasons, 
doubtless,  jou  decline  bestowing  on  me  the 
.hand  of  your  fair  daughter,  I  am  under  the 
painful  necessity  of  making  her  my  wife, 
without  troubling  you  to  g've  her  away. 
For  your  own  sake.  I  feel  convinced  you 
will  not  make  a  public  riffair  of  this— as  I 
judge  you  have  too  much  pride  to  allow 
your  daughte-'s  good  name  to  become  a 
byword  for  the  town.  Rest  assured  she 
shall  be  treated  with  all  the  respect  due  tO' 
the  daughter  of  so  distinguished  a  gentle- 
man as  Major  Perclval;  and  when  once  my 
wife,  shall  be  restored  to  her  home  on  one 
condition.  It  is,  that  you  will  give  me  her 
fortune  as  a  sort  of  ransom  which,  as  you 
are  wealthy,  no  doubt  you  will  willingly 
do  If  you  refuse,  why,  then  It  will  be  all 
the  worse  for  your  pretty,  but  rather  stub- 
born daughter.  The  retreat  to  which  I  have 
taken  her  is  secur;e,  and  you  cannot  dis- 
cover it;  theiefore,  you  had  better  make 
up  your  mind  to  comply  with  my  terms  at 
once.  If  you  do.  your  daughter  •  shall  be 
Immediately  restored  to  you;   if  not— 

"I  have  the  honor,  my  dear  sir,  to  re- 
main, 

"Yours  sincerely, 

"Ralph  De  Llyle.  ' 

"The   scoundrel!    the    treacherous,   de- 


ceitful   villain!"    thundere'd    the    major,'' 
springing  to   his   feet,    white   with    pas- 
sion. 

"What  is  It?"  d'^manded  Gus  and  Nell, 
while  Mrs.  Penival's  eyes  asked  the 
same  question,  though  her  lips  were  si- 
lent. 

"Read  that!"  exclaimed  the  major,  as 
he  flung  the  missive  he  had  crumpled  in 
his  hand  fiercely  from  him.  "Read  that! 
For  I  cannot  tell  you." 

Nell  took  it  up,  and  read  it  slowly  from 
beginning  to  end. 

"Merciful  heavens!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Perclval,   "what  shall  we  do?" 

"Do?"  shouted  the  major,  "I'll  send  a 
bullet  through  his  heart  if  ever  my  eyes 
light  on  hi  again.  The  black-hearted 
villain!  Is  this  his  return  for  ail  I  have 
done  for  him?  My  daughter!  My  daugh- 
ter in  the  power  of  such  a  villain!" 

"My  dear  sir,  what  Is  the  matter?"  ex- 
claimed a  well-known  voice;  and,  look- 
ing up,  they  beheld  Nugent,  dusty  and 
travel-worn,  standing  before  them. 

In  a  few  words  Nell  related  all  that 
had  transpired,  for  the  rest  were  to»i 
much  excited  to  do  so,  and  ended  by 
placing  De  Lisle' s  latter  in  his  hand. 
The  brow  of  Nugent  grew  dark,  and  his 
eyes  flashed  fiercely;  but,  subduing  all 
other  signs  of  anger,  he  turned  to  his 
father,  and  said: 

"Well,  sir,  on  what  plan  have  you  de- 
cided?" 

"Plan!  I  car.  think  of  nothing  but  of 
j'ursulng  that  scoundrel  to  the  ends  of 
the  earth.  Mount!  mount!  and  after 
them!" 

"Stay!"  cried  a  voice,  that  made  them 
all  start,  it  was  so  stern  and  command- 
ing. "Are  you  mad  to  start,  on  such  a 
wild  goose  chase?  Wait;  follow  my  direc- 
tions, and  all  will  be  well." 

They  looked  up,  and  beheld,  to  their 
amaaement,  the  Hermit  of  the  Cliffs, 
who  stood  before  them  like  some  prophet 
of  old,  in  his  flowing  robes,  majestic 
bearing,  and  snowy  hair. 

"You  here!"  exclaimed  Nugent,  in 
surprise. ' 

"And  wherefore  not,  my  son?" 

"I  thought  you  were  in  the  city.  You 
were  there  a  short  time  ago!"  said  Nu- 
gent. 

"Whithersoever  my  duty  leads  me, 
there  am  I,"  answered  the  hermit,  in  his 
calm,  grave  voice.  "The  wolf  hath  stol- 
en a  lamb  from  the  flock,  and  the  rest 
shall  be  left  in  the  desert  while  we 
search  for  the  one  that  is  lost.  Listen  to 
me,  and  go  not  fonh  rashly." 

"This  is  no  time  for  fooling!"  ex- 
claimed the  major,  impatiently.  "Stand 
aside,  old  man,  and  let  us  begone!" 
-  "Nay,  there  Is  one  come  who  will  show 
you  the  way,"  said  the  hermit.  "Why 
should  you  wander  in  the  dark  when 
thero  \i:  light  at  hand?" 

"Do  you  know  where  my  daughter  is?"^ 


THE   HERMIT   O*'   THE   CUFm. 


61 


d '  the    major/ 
ite  with   pa.«- 

Gus  and  Nell 

Bs    asked    the 

Ups  were  si- 

the  major,  as 
a  crumpled  in 
"Read  that! 

It  slowly  from 

claimed     Mrs 
lo?" 

"I'll  send  a 
ever  my  eyes 

black-hearted 
for  all  I  have 
•'  My  daugh- 
1  villain!" 
matter?"  ex- 
e;   and,  look- 
t,  duaty  and 
■e  them, 
ited  all  that 
?st    were    too 
id   ended    by 
n    his    hand 
lark,  and  his 
subduing  all 
Jrned    to   his 

lave  you  de- 
thing  but  of 
the  ends  of 
•'    and    after 

made  them 
3  command- 
t.on  such  a 
w  my  direc- 

?ld,  to    their 

the    Cliffs. 

>me  prophet 

s,    majestic 

Nugent,     in 

m?" 
city.     You 
"  said  Nu- 

leads  me, 
[•mit,  in  his 

hath  stol- 
id the  rest 

while    we 

Listen  to 

ling!"  ex- 
y.  "Stand 
gone!" 
will  show 
It.  "Why 
ark    when 

Shter  is?" 


[demanded  Major  Percival,  fixing  his  eyes 
?  sternly  upon  him. 

"Oi\e  is  at  hand  who  does!"  repeated 
the  hi  rmit,  in  the  same  quiet  tone.  '/My 
hand  may  not  point  out  the  way,  but 
trust  in  him  who  will  follow  me.  His 
eyes  have  been  opened,  and  to  him  it 
is  gf4ren  to  rescue  the  maiden  of  the 
house  of  Percival." 

,  "Pshaw!  Why  do  we  stay  listening  to 
I  such  nonsenst?"  demanded  the  major, 
,  Impetuously.  "What  can  this  hoary  old 
'man  know  of  Edith?  Let  ua  away;  why 
f  should  we  waste  time  lingering  here?" 
;  He  turned  to  go;  but  the  hand  of  the 
hermit  was  laid  on  his  shoulder, 

"Thou  Shalt  remain,  Major  Percival!" 

,  he  said,  in  the  same  firm,  calm  tone  of 

[command.    "It  is  given  me  to  know  that 

\  if  you  now  set  out,  you  ^  ill  prove  unsuc- 

[cessful.     Remain;   he  who  cometh  after 

me   is   at   hand,   and    when    he   arrives, 

with   thy   son   and   this   youth,    let   him 

,  search    for    the    lost    daughter    of    thy 

house:    but    do    you    remain    here    and 

watch  over   .hose  who  are  left." 

He  bowed  slowly  and  with  grave  dig- 
nity, .and,  folding  hif5  garment  around 
him,  quitted  the  house. 

All  stood  looking  In  the  face  of  each 
other,  in  amazement  and  uncertainty. 
Surprise  that  he  should  know  already 
what  had  occurred,  and  wonder  at  the 
probable  meaning  of  his  words,  were 
mingled  with  an  uncertainty  whether  to 
follow  his  advice  or  n ->t.  The  major  and 
Newton  thought  of  the  strange  power 
he  exercised  over  Sir  William  Stanley; 
and,  in  spite  of  their  impatience,  were 
hdlf  inclined  to  follow  his  advice.  Ere 
they  oould  fully  determine  what  course 
to  pursue,  however,  Fred  Stanley,  his 
fine  face  flushed,  and  his  garments  dis- 
ordered, stood  before  them. 

"Stanley'  by  all  that's  wonderful!" 
exclaimed  Nugent,  in  unbounded  aston- 
ishment. 

The  major's  brow  grew  dark  as  night, 
but  the  young  man.  In  his  excitement, 
scarcely  seemed  to  notice  him. 

"What  has  happened?  Where  is 
Edith?"  was  his  first  demand. 

"Young  man,  will  you  be  good  enough 
to  tell  us  what  sent  you  here?"  said  the 
major,  sternly,  stepping  forward. 

"Certainly,  sir!"  said  Fred,  with  a 
stiff  bow,  "this  singular  note."  And  he 
drew  forth  a  letter,  and  handed  it  to  the 
major,  who  opened  it  and  read: 

"Ride,  ride  for  your  life  to  Percival  Hall. 
She  whom  you  love  is  in  the  power  of  your 
rival.  He  has  carried  her  off  by  force. 
Take  the  road  to  the  north;  near  the  vil- 
lage of  R.  are  the  pine  woods,  where  an 
old  mansion  of  De  Llsle's  is  situated.  There 
you   will    find   Edith   Percival.    E.    S.. 

"Hermit  of  the  Clltts." 

"Let  us  start  Instantly!"  exclaimed  the 
major.    "Every  moment  is  precious!" 


'!You  had  Ijett^r  follow  tbe  cHrectlons 
of  the  hefcmit,  and  remain  here,"  said 
Nugent.  "We  •  three,  with  one  or  i^ivo 
friends,  will  be  enough.  De  Lisle.'s  men 
are  in  all  probability  far  enough  from 
their  leader,  who  feels  too  secure  in  his 
retreat  to  dread  a  visit  from  us.  Be- 
side, I  have  a  message  for  you  from 
your  friend.  Colonel  Greyson,  which  ad- 
mits of  no  delay,  and  will  absolutely  pre- 
vent you  from  going  with  us." 

The  major  seemed  stHl  uncertain;  but 
the  others  joined  Nugent  In  urging  him 
to  obey  the  hermit,  and  remain  behind. 

Having,  at  length,  reluctantly  con- 
sented, Fred,  Gus  and  young  Percival, 
with  one  or  two  f rie  ids,  started  in  the 
direction  pointed  out  by  the  hermit. 

Having  reached  the  plape  indicated, 
they  secreted  themselves  in  the  woods, 
while  Nugent,  who  was  familiar  with  the 
place,  went  to  reconnoitre. 

He  soon  returned  with  the  ominous  in- 
telligence that  there  was  a  force  six 
times  their  number  in  the  old  house,  and 
that  it  would  ruin  tlieir  cause  altogether 
to  attempt  at  present  to  contend  against 
such  odds.  Nothing  remained,  therefore, 
but  to  lie  in  wait,  and  seifce  the  first  fa- 
vorable opportunity.  None,  however, 
presented  itself;  and  the  afternoon  of  the 
following  day,  accidentally  overhearing 
a  conversation  between  two  of  De  LIsle's 
men,  by  which  they  learned  the  marriage 
was  to  take  plaee  that  very  day.  they, 
determined  at  all  risks  to  make  the  at- 
tempt, the  result  of  which  is  already 
known  to  the  reader. 

♦         •         *  ^        ♦  *      ,  ♦  .        «,.,._ 

Half  an  hour  after  his  interview  with 
Edith,  De  Lisle  sat  in  his  own  room,  eat- 
ing a  hasty  breakfast  ere  fie  departed  on 
his  journey.  His  meditations  were  at 
length  abruptly  interrupted  by  the  en- 
trance of  Nan  Crowe,  who.  In  her  usual 
screeching  tones,  announced  that  a  boy 
without  wished  to  see  him. 

"What  does  he  want?"  said  De  Lislei 

"Want?"  repeated  Mrs.  Crow.  ^'Yes, 
he  wants  to  see  you." 

"What  is  his  business?"  demanded  De 
Lisle,  raising  his  voice. 

"None  of  my  business!"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Crow,  in  rising  wrath;  "allers  the 
way  every  one  ireats  me  arter  a-trottln'. 
me  off  my  legs,  with  the  rhumatiz  In  the 
small  of  my  back,  a-bringing  of  pesky 
young  galls  to  'tend  on,  what  ain't  no 
business  here,  a  flghten.  and  sitten  up 
killing  of  one  another,  with  the  rhumatiz 
in  the  small  of  my  back" — 

"Go  to  the  deuce,  vou  old  fool!"  an- 
grily interrupted  De  Lisle.  "Be  oflf  with 
you  and  bring  him  here,  whoever  he  is!" 

Muttering  to  herself.  Nan  Crow  quitted 
the  room,  and  presently  reappeared  with 
a  yotit4i  of  some  sixteen  years--^  rough, 
uncouth-loaking  lad. 

He  was  small  for  his  age.  and  dressed 
in    a    suit    of    coarse    gray    homespun. 


f2 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    CLIFFB. 


m 


w 


which  looked,  to  use. a  common  but  ex- 
presBive  phrase,  as  though  they  had  been 
thrown  on  by  a  pitchfork.  His  face  was 
bronzed  and  darkened  by  exposure  to  the 
sun.  his  eyes  were  brigh*  and  Intelligent, 
and  shone  and  glittered  like  glass  beads 
through  the  coarse  masses  of  uncombed 
sai;dy  hair.  His  walk  was  peculiar,  as 
he  shuffled  along  In  a  pair  of  huge  cow- 
hide boots,  dragging  his  legs  after  him 
as  thoiigh    they   belonged    to   somebody 

Such  was  the  lad  who  now  stood,  hat 
in  hand,  before  De  Lisle,  shifting  un- 
easily from  one  foot  to  the  other. 

"Who  are  you?"  demanded  De  Lisle, 
gazing  rather  contemptuously  at  the 
new-comer. 

"Joe  Smith,  sir,"  answered  the  boy, 
with  a  strong  nasal  twang  of  "Deown 
East." 

"What  do  you  want?" 

"Wall,  I  kinder  kalkerlated  on  gettin' 
work." 

"Work?  what  kind  of  work?"  said  De 
L'sle. 

"Wall,  I  ain't  particular;  'most  any- 
thing comes  handy  to  me." 

"What  hpve  you  bieen  accustomed  to?" 

"Little  of  everything,  boss.  I  gen'ly 
work  on  the  farm  to  hum." 

"Why  did  you  leave  hum,  as  you  call 
it?" 

"Wall,  me  and  mother  and  Glory  Ann 
thought  as  how  I'd  better  come  up  to 
Boston  and  'list;  but  arter  lookln'  round 
a  spell,  I  didn't  like  it,  and  klncluded 
'twasn't  no  slch  fun  to  be  shot  as  'twas 
cracked  up  to  be." 

"What  induced  you  to  come  here?" 

"Why,  I'd  beam  tell  o'  you  some,  and 
thought  maybe  you  wouldn't  mind  hirln' 
a  new  hand  to  cook  vittlls,  and  bring 
water,  and  chop  wood,  and  slch.  You 
see,  bos  I'm  rather  a  smart  chap,  'spe- 
cially arter  a  llckin';  and  didn't  see  no 
reason  why  I'd  waste  my  talents  a-rais- 
ing  pumpkins  all  my  life;  so  when  I 
makes  my  fortln  here,  I  intends  goin' 
home,  and  gettin'  spliced  onto  Glory  Ann 
liazybones,  a  gal  what's  9,  regular  buster, 
and  no  mistake."  . 

"You  are  an  original,"  said  De  Lisle, 
rather  amused,  "but  I  am  surprised  that 
you  do  not  wish  to  join  the  rebels,  like  so 
many  otheris  of  your  class." 

"Wall,  boss,  I  allers  had  high  ideers 
since  I  was  'bout  so  old,  when  I  used  to 
ride  roun'  every  day  on  mother's  old 
cheese-horse  for  exercise.  These  here 
rebels  ain't  no  'count,  and  beln'  the 
weaker  party,  I  intends  pitchin'  into  'em 
like  a  thousand  o'  bricks.  Mother  allers 
ses-^sez  she:  'Joe,'  sez  she,  'you  stick  to 
the  strongest  party,  my  son;  it's  allers 
best';  so,  in  course,  as  I'm  a  dootlful  son, 
I  obeys  the  old  'oman.  'Sides,  if  I  turn 
Britisher,  and  help  to  lick  our  boys, 
there's  no  tellin'  but  what  they'll  want 
to  make  a  lord  or  an  earl  o'  me  one  o' 


these  long-come-shorts.  Lord  Joe  Smith! 
Jee-whlttlca!  that  sounds)  sort  o'  grand. 
don't   it?" 

"I  see — number  one's  your  lookout!" 
aald  De  Lisle.  "Well,  since  your  ambi- 
tion soars  so  high,  it  would  be  a  pity  to 
depFlve  Glory  Ann  of  the  chance  to  be- 
come Lady  Smith;  so  I  don't  mind  tak- 
ing you  into  my  service." 

"Thankee,  boss;  you're  a  brick!"  Inter- 
rupted Mr.  Smith,  patronizingly. 

"Don't  be  so  familiar,  sir,"  said  De 
Lisle,  sharply.  "Learn  a  little  more  re- 
spect when  addressing  your  betters.  For 
the  present,  your  duty  will  consist  in  as- 
sifting  my  housekeeper  in  her  household 
aftalrs,  and  in  looking  after  and  attend- 
ing to  the  wants  of  two  or  three  prison- 
ers confined  here.  One  of  my  men  will 
direct  you  what  to  do.  And  now,  to  be- 
gin your  new  duties,  go  and  saddle  my 
horse  and  bring  him  round  to  the  door." 

"AH  right,  siree!"  replied  Joe,  clapping 
his  hat  on  his  head,  and  giving  it  a  vig- 
orous thump  down  over  his  eyes,  as  he 
hastened  out  to  obey  the  order,  leaving 
De  Lisle  to  finish  his  breakfast. 

"There  is  yet  one  more  duty  to  per- 
form," muttered  De*Lisle,  rising;  "one  so 
agreeable  that  it  amply  compensates  for 
all  the  humiliation  I  have  been,  through 
him,  forced  to  endure.  Master  Pred 
Stanley,  I  go  to  pay  you  a  morning  visit, 
and  see  how  you  estimate  my  kind  hos- 
pitality, in  keeping  you  here  my  guest." 

The  sinister  smile  he  wore  made  his 
face  almost  repulsive  as  he  arose  and 
left  the  room. 

Passing  through  a  long  hall,  he  de- 
scended a  flight  of  narrow,  winding 
stairs,  and  stood  in  another  long  hall, 
f  anked  on  each  side  by  doors.  A  sentry 
stood  pacing  to  and  fro  before  them.  He 
paused,  and  touched  his  hat  respectfully 
on  seeing  De  Lisle. 

"Where  is  Stanley  confined?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"Here,  sir,"  answered  the  man,  opening 
one  of  the  doors  to  allow  him  to  enter. 

Die  Lisle  passed  In,  and  found  himself 
in  a  low,  gloomy  room,  with  a  damp,  un- 
wholesome odor.  Seated  on  a  low  stool, 
the  only  article  of  furniture  it  contained, 
was  Fred  Stanley,  his  forehead  leaning 
on  his  hand,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor, 
his  brow  knit,  as  though  in  deep,  troubled 
thought.  As  the  creaking  of  the  heavy 
door  fell  on  his  ear,  he  looked  up  quickly 
and  SI  rang  to  his  feet  as  he  saw  his  mor- 
tal foe  before  him. 

For  a  moment  they  stood  silently  fac- 
ing each  other— those  two  rivals.  De 
Lisle's  face  wore  a  look  of  triumph,  min- 
gled with  most  intense  and  deadly 
hatred.  A  bitter,  sneering  smile  was  on 
his  lips,  and  a  look  of  gratified  malice 
in  his  eyes.  Fred,  stern,  and  cold,  and 
haughty,  stood  opposite  him,  his  arms 
folded,  across  his  breast,  returning  his 
gaze   with   such   a   look   of  »ofty   scorn. 


THE   UHRMIT   OF   THE   CLIFFS, 


88 


that,  in  spite  of  himself,  De  Lisle 
quailed  before  him. 

"Well,  Frederic  Stanley,  my  hour  of  tri- 
umph has  come,"  said  De  Lisle,  with  a 
look  of  malignant  triumph. 

"Villain!  do  your  worst!  I  defy  you!" 
was  the  bold  answer. 

"That  most  assuredly  I  shall  do,"  re- 
turned De  Lisle.  "Before  the  sun's  rise 
and  set  you  shall  die  the  ignominious 
death  of  the  halter." 

"Do  your  worst,  Ralph  De  Lisle;  I  fear 
you  not!"  was  the  rejoinder. 

"When  you  crossed  my  path,  and  won 
the  affections  of  her  whom  I  loved,  I 
swore  a  deadly  oath  of  vengeance.  For- 
tune has  favored  me,  the  time  has  come, 
and  your  hours  are  numbered.  She  whom 
you  love  Is  in  my  power,  and  the  same 
hour  which  will  see  you  swinging  a  dis- 
colored corpse  between  heaven  and  earth 
will  see  her  a  bride  in  my  arms.  You 
both  began  a  dangerous  game,  Fred 
Stanley,  when  you  thwarted  my  wishes, 
as  you  will  find  when  the  halter  is  round 
your  neck,  and  as  she  will  discover 
when,  after  making  her  my  mine,  I  will 
whisper  in  her  ear  the  fate  of  him  whom 
she  loves  better  than  life." 

"Fiend!  Devil  in  human  form!  Do 
your  worst,  and  may  the  heaviest '  curse 
of  Heaven  fall  upon  you!"  exclaimed 
Fred,  growing  livid  with  passion. 

"Ha!  I  thought  you  would  feel  that!" 
said  De  Lisle,  with  a  grim  smile.  "You 
will  have  ample  time  to  meditate  on 
these  arid  many  otlier  consoling  truths 
between  this  and  the  day  of  doom.  It 
will  also,  doubtless,  be  a  pleasure  to  you 
to  know  that  Edith  will  be  a  prifjoner 
under  the  same  roof  with  you  until  my 
return,  which  may  be  to-morrow,  or,  at 
the  furthest,  three  days  hence.  And  now 
it  occurs  to  me  that  my  revenge  will  be 
greater  to  allow  you  to  be  present  at  our 
bridal.  I  will  thus  have  a  double  tri- 
umph over  you  both." 

"A  fiend  could  not  be  more  diabolical!" 
exclaimed  Fred,  paling  involuntarily  at 
his  words. 

"Have  I  not  well  learned  the  art  of 
torturing?"  went  on  De  Lisle,  with  a 
fiendish  smile.  "Death  itself  would  be 
nothing — that  would  be  a  poor  triumph. 
I  know  you  well  enough  to  be  aware  that 
you  do  not  fear  death;  but  the  torture  I 
shall  inflict  before  death  shall  last  even 
after  the  soul  has  left  the  body.  I  will 
leave  you  now  to  repose  and  solitude. 
You  will  have  ample  time,"  he  added, 
with  a  sneer,  "to  meditate  on  your  latter 
end,  and  make  your  peace  with  Heaven 
during  my  absence.  Should  I  return  to- 
morrow, before  another  sun  sets  you 
shall  swing  as  high  as  Haman.  Au  re- 
vt)ir,  until  I  meet  you  again  on  Abra- 
ham's bosom." 

And  turning  on  his  heel,  he  strode  from 
the  room. 

"To-morrow?"    repeated    Fred,    gazing 


after  his  retreating  figure,  "who  knows 
what  to-mcrrow  may  bring  forth?" 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

JOE    VISITS    HIS    PRISONERS. 

"Trust  In  God! 
Thou  forlorn  one,   cease   thy   moan; 

All  thy  pain  and  all  thy  sorrow 
Are  to  God,  the  Highest,  known, 
He  leaves  thee  now,  but  helps  to-morrow. 
Trust  in  God!" 

The  bright  sunshine  of  the  morning 
following  that  eventful  night  shone  into 
E^th's  room;  but  it  was  all  unheeded  by 
her.  She  lay  on  her  face  on  the  bed,  not 
sleeping,  but  in  a  deep,  heavy  torpor,  her 
white  arms  extended  above  her  head,  so 
still  and  motionless  that  but  for  the 
quick,  rapid  breathing,  one  might  imag- 
ine her  dead. 

Not  of  herself  was  she  thinking,  but  of 
those  for  whom  she  would  have  given 
her  life — of  one  whom  she  would  gladly 
have  died  to  save.  Fred!  Fred!  all 
through  that  miserable  night  his  name 
had  been  on  her  lips — his  image  alone  in 
her  heart.  Never  again  would  she  meet 
those  dear,  dark  eyes — already,  perhaps, 
closed  forever;  that  brave,  impulsive 
heart,  whose  every  throb  had  been  for 
her,  might  now  be  cold  and  still  in 
death. 

The-  bolt  was  withdrawn,  the  door 
opened,  some  one  entered,  but  she  did 
rot  look  up.  She  was  conscious  that 
some  one  was  bending  over  her,  but  still 
she  did  not  move  until  she  heard  a 
strange  voice  muttering,  in  a  sort  of  so- 
liloquy: 

"Crikeyi  she  beats  the  seven  sleepers, 
she  does!  I'm  blamed  if  she  ain't  as 
sound  as  a  top.  Wall,  I  s'pose  I  better 
leave  the  vlttals  here,  and  arter  her 
snooze  she'll  fall  to." 

With  a  start,  Edith  rose  on  her  elbow 
and  gazed  wildly  around.  Her  amaze- 
ment at  beholding  tlie  uncouth  figure 
and  face  of  honest  Joe  Smith  may  better 
be  imagined  than  described.  So  com- 
pletely was  she  bewildered  that  she  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  him  between  surprise 
and  terror,  scarcely  knowing  whether  to 
cry  out  for  help  or  not.  Joe,  however, 
bore  her  scrutiny  with  wonderful  com- 
posure, and  returned  her  stare  with  com- 
pound interest. 

"Good  mornin',  marm.  Fine  day  this. 
How's  your  folks?  I  hope  the  old  wo- 
man and  all  the  folks  to  hum  is  well!" 
said  Joe,  in  a  tone  of  condescending  po- 
liteness. • 

"What?"  said  Edith,  rather  bewildered 
by  the  rapidity  with  which  this  speech 
was  delivered. 

"Never  mind,  'tain't  worth  sayin'  over 
again,"  said  Joe.  "I  hope  I  didn't  dis- 
turb any  pleasant  dreams  o'  your'n.    You 


H 


TBE   HERMIT   OF    THE   CLIFFS. 


'•'\ 


■i' 


5' 


-w.aa  8)eepln'  ay^ay  Jlike  all  creatiicin  wb.en 
I  ca?ne  In!"   ,  , .  ,  ,        - : 

"Who  sent  you  herfe?"  Inquired  Edith, 
wljose  terror  had  not  quite  Vanished. 

"Wall,  the  cap'n  did,  maxTn,"  replied 
Joe;  I  'xpect  I'm  to  he  waitln'-mald  till 
he  comes  back.  I  hain't  no  objections  to 
It.  though— 'cause,  maybe,  I'll  be  able  to 
rarn  Glory  Ann  somethin'  in  her  line 
arter  I  go  back  to  hum.  Here's  your 
breakfas.',  marm,  what  that  Jolly  old 
case  down  in  the  kitchen  sent  me  with. 
Seems  to  me  the  cap'n's  got  a  taste  for 
keepin'  people  'n  the  lockup,  jijdgin'  by 
all  I've  'tended  to  this  mornin'.  Let's 
see— two  and  one's  three,  and  one's  fpur 
— f eur  I've  visited  this  mornin',  countin' 
you." 

.^  An  exclamation  of  delight  broke  invol- 
untarily from  the  lips  of  Edith.  Three 
beside  her!  .Then  Fred  was  living  still. 
"Hey?  What  Is  It?  Did  you  stick  a 
pin  In  you?"  Inquired  Joe,  mistaking  the 
cause  of  her  emotion. 

"Who  were  the  three  you  visited  this 
mornings?"  inquired  Edith,  with  breath- 

"Wall,  let'«-:see."  said  Joe,  closing  one 
eye  and  laying  his  forefinger  meditative- 
ly-on  the  point  of  his  nose;  "the  first,  I 
think,  somebody  called  Goose,  or  some- 
thin*  about  the  size  ©'  that." 

"0US,"  amended  Edith,  eagerly. 

VYaas,  Gus,  or  Goose,  or  some  sort  o'  a 
fowl.  I  found  him  lyin'  on  the,  floor, 
takin'  a  snooze,  I  s'pose,  somethin'  like 
I  found  you.  He  got  up  when  I  came  In, 
and  fell  to  the  vlttals  as  if  he'd  been 
Itvln'  OB  pavin' -stones  for  a  week,  an' 
'tween  every  mouthful  he  took  to  askin' 
me  a  string  o'  questions  as  long  as  a  law- 
yer's conscience.  He  wanted  to  know  all 
the  particulars  'bout  you,  and  'fore  he'd 
give  me  time  to  answer  one  of  'em  he 
blowed  the  cap'n  and  the  whole  blamed 
consarn  sky-high.  'Twa'n't  no  use  to 
try  to  reason  matters  with  him,  'cause 
when  I  took  to  arguin',  'fore  I  got  to 
thirdly,  he  told  me  to  go  and  be  hanged. 
You  see  I  couldn't  stand  that— I  wasn't 
used  to  It,  mother^  never  'lowed  no,  pro- 
fane sweftrin'  to  hum  so  I  just  told  him 
to  be  hanged  himself,  if  he  liked,  but  as 
f*r  me,  I  was  like  the  Highlandman,  in 
no   hurry.'* 

■  "What  Highlandman?"  inquired  Edith, 
absently. 

"Why,  some  old  Scotch  big-bug,  long 
ago,  had  a  servant  that  did  somethin', 
I  forgot  what,  and  he  was  goin'  to  hang 
him  for  it.  But;  you  see,  the  servant 
had  been  a  favorite  of  his,  so  his  master 
told  him  he'd  grant  htm  the  favor  of 
choosing  "wAlchever  tree  Ih  his  orchard 
he'd  like  to  be  hung  on.  The  servant 
wtfs  tickled  to  death  to  hear  it,  an*  weftt 
crttfr  to  ehoose  th^  tree  with  his  master. 
At"  last  he  stopped  before  a  goosebierry 
btrsh,  aiid  said  he'd  be  h\ing  onto  that.  . 

"'Go  to  tt&a«\'  B^z  his  master;    'tnat 


ain't  big  enough  to  hang  a  six-footer  like 
you  on!'  ,; 

"  'Oh,  well','  elez  the  senraot,  'IMl  wait 
till.lt  grows  big. .  I'm  "In  no  hurry!'  " 

"But  the  others— the  others?"  exclaim- 
ed Edith,  who  had  listened  Impatiently 
to  this  digression. 

"Oh,  ya-as— just  so.  Well,  the  next 
was  the  very  picter  o'  you — s'pect  he 
must  be  some  relation.  He  was  sittin'  > 
down  onto  a  bench,  an'  asked  me  a  few 
questions — not  many,  though;  'bout  a 
dozen  or  so — If  I'd  seen  you,  and  where 
was  the  boss,  and  so  on.  It  was  sort  o' 
comfortable  to  talk  to  hhn  sides  the  oth- 
er two,  who  didn't  seem  to  have  a  single 
grain  o*  senses  in  their  knowledge- 
boxes  "  -.  .  . 

"And  the  third?"  demanded  Edith, 
hurriedly. 

•  "Him!  O  Jerusalem!  I've  seen  a  wild- 
cat— I've  seen  a  bear  with  a  sore  head 
— I've  seen  a  gander  when  somebody 
carried  off  the  goslin's  before  him— I've 
seen  mother  in  a  passion,  and  a-flarin' 
around  at  the  governor — but  I  never, 
never,  never  saw  such  a  savage,  wlld- 
lookln'  scunner  as  the  t'other  one. 
Cracky!  when  I  went  In  thar,  he  was 
artearin'  up  and  down  as  though  hf 
was  boun'  to  have  a  walk-  somehow,  if 
the  floor  held  out — lookln'  so  sort  o' 
savage-lookin'  an'  fierce  that  I  like  to 
spilt  his  breakfas'  atop  of  him.  It's 
lucky  I  didn't;  for  if  he'd  got  his  dander 
riz  any  wuss  the  L.or'  a  massy  only 
knows  whar  Joe  Smlth'd  be  now.  I'm 
blamed  if  I  ever  seen  any  one  In  sich  a 
tearin'  rage  as  that  oove  was  in." 

"It  must  have  been  Fred,"  thought 
Edith.  "Was  he  wounded?— how  did  he 
look?"   she   asked,   aloud. 

"Wall,  marm,  I  don't  know  as  I  kin 
tell,"  said  Joe,  thougrfitfully.  '*He  set  me 
into  .sich  a  flusterlfication  that  It  was 
'most  a  danger  to  look  at  hlnr.  He  had 
a  black  coat  and  trousls,"  and  hair  on, 
and  was  as  tall  as— as— I  don't  know 
who  (that's  a  nice  size  for  a  mian).  He 
was  sort  o'  darklsh-lookin',  with  a  black 
murstuasher  onto  his  upper  lip.  Some 
people  might  call  him  good-lookin* ;  but 
Glory  Ann  allers  sez  fair  hair's  the  nic- 
est." And  Joe  gave  his  tow  locks  a 
complacent  shake. 

"Would  you  bring  a  message  from  me 
to  them?"  inquired  Edith,  eagerly. 

"Wall,  now,  I  don't  know,"  said  Joe, 
rather  reluctantly;  "  'twould  be  sorter 
agin  orders,  you  know.  Sorry  to  refuse 
you,  marm,  but  I  can'f  help  It." 

"Tell  him,  at  least,  that  I  will  die 
sooner  than  marry  De  Lisle  You  will 
befriend  me  by  doing  so;  and  you  can 
do  no  one  any  possible  Injury,"  said 
Edith,  pleadingly. 

"Tell  who,   niarm— which   of  'em?" 

"The  one    you    spoke    of   last."     • 

"Oh!  the  fierce-lookin'  one.  Yes'm,  I 
don't  mind  telUn'  him.    But  I  guess  he 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE   VLlFrS. 


W 


%  six-footer  like 

rvant,  T.B  wait 
no  hurry!' " 
lers?"  exclaim- 
led  impatiently 

i^'ell,  the  next 
you— s'pect  he 
He  was  sittln'  . 
aked  me  a  few 
lough;  'bout  a 
fou,  and  where 
It  was  sort  o' 
1  sides  the  oth- 

0  have  a  single 
Ir    knowledge- 

nanded    Edith, 

ire  seen  a  wild- 
h  a  sore  head 
hen  somebody 
?fore  him— I've 
1,  and  a-flarln' 
—but    I    never, 

savage,  wlld- 
t'other     one. 

thar,  he  was 
as  though  he 
k  somehow,  If 
n*  so  sort  o' 
that  I  like  to 

of  him.  It's 
got  his  dander 

1  massy  only 
be  now.  I'm 
one  in  sich  a 

was  in." 
red,"    thought 
?— how  did  he 

now  as  I  kin 
.    "He  set  me 

that  it  was 
him.  He  had 
and  hail*  on, 

don't  know 
a  man).  He 
with  a  black 
er  lip.  Some 
1-lookin';  but 
air's  the  nic- 
tow    locks    a 

sage  from  me 

eagerly. 

IV,"  said  Joe, 

lid    be    sorter 

rry  to  refuse 

!lp  it." 

t    I    will    die 

lie     You   will 

and  yoii  can 

njury,"    said 

of  'em?" 

last."     • 
le.    Yes'm,   I 
t  I  guess  he 


won't  care.  I  don't  believe  he'd  go  tci 
the   weddin'   if   he   was   asked." 

"You  will  tell  him.  at  least?— you  will 
not  forget  it?"  said  EMith.  anxiously. 

"Oh,  no  fear:  I'll  tell  him,  if  he  does 
blow  me  up.  'Tany  rate,  I  guess  wed- 
din's  is  the  last  thing  he'll  think  about, 
'cause  the  boss  is  boun'  to  string  him  up 
■like  a  dried  mackerel  soon  as  ever  he 
comes  back." 

A  convulsive  shudder  was  Edith's  only 
answer. 

"Wall,  now,  marm,  I  wouldn't  take  on 
so  if  I  was  you."  said  Joe,  gazing  sym- 
pathetically toward  Edith.  "Arter  all,  I 
shouldn't  wonder  If  things  should  turn 
out  all  right  in  the  end.  P'raps  you've 
hearn  tell  o'  people  entertainln'  angels 
In  disguise?" 

Edith  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  at 
him  with  so  much  surprise  that  Joe 
laughed  and  said: 

"Keep  up  heart— there's  nothing  like 
it.  I  shouldn't  be  s'prlsed  if  me  and 
Glory  Ann  danced  at  your  weddin'  yet. 
There's  never  no  use  in  frettin'.  Hope 
on,    hope    ever!" 

"Who  are  you?"  asked  Edith,  with  an 
undefined  feeling  that  she  had  heard  the 
voice  before. 

"Lor!  I'm  only  Joe  Smith,  from  Bung- 
town.  Old  Jake  Smith's  my  governor, 
an'  me  an'  Glory  Ann  Lazybones  is  goin' 
to  hitch  teams  one  of  these  times,  when 
they  make  a  lord  or  somethln'  of  me — 
that's  all.  'Tain't  wuth  makln'  a  book 
of." 

"I  think  you  resemble  some  one  I've 
seen  before,"  said  Edith,  with  a  puzzled 
look;  "but  whom,  I  cannot  tell.  Well, 
you  may  leave  me  now;  I  wish  to  be 
alone.  You  will  not  forget  to  deliver  my 
message?" 

"All  right,  marm;  Joe  Smith's  got  a 
stunnln'  memory.  Good  morning.  I 
s'pect  that  blessed  old  angel  down  in 
the  kitchen'll  give  me  fits  for  stayin' 
here  so  long.  Don't  forget  to  keep  up 
your  spirits.  I  don't  believe  we'll  have 
a  weddin'  or  a  hangin'  so  ~  soon  as  the 
boss  thinks." 

With  this  sage  concluding  remark, 
worthy  Joe  shuffled  out  of  the  room, 
leaving  Edith  to  ruminate  on  the  prob- 
able meaning  of  his  words. 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

PLOTTING. 

"Nightly  tears  have  dimmed  the  lustre 

Of  thy  sweet  eyes,  once  so  bright; 
And,  as  when  dark  willows  cluster, 
Weeping,  o'er  marble  rocks, 

O'er  thy  forehead  white. 
Droop  thy  waving  locks- 
Yet  thou  art  beautiful,  poor  gin. 

As  angels  in  distress- 
Yea,  comforting  thy  soul,   dear  girl 

With   thy  loveliness." 

— Tupper. 

The  day's  toll  was  over.    Nan  Grow, . 


after  screeching,  and  grumbling,  and 
scolding  to  her  heart's  content,  had 
thrown  her  apron  over  her  head,  and 
fallen  asleep  in  her  easy-chair  in  the  long 
kitchen.  The  men  were  loitering  Idly 
about— some  lying  on  the  cool  grass, 
where  the  shadows  fell  long  and  dark, 
rejoicing  in  the  cool  evening  breeze  after 
the  scorching  heat  of  the  day:  some  snt 
at  the  table  playing  cards,  swearing  and 
vociferating  at  an  appalling  rate;  others 
lounged  in  groups  round  the  room,  with 
bottles  and  glasses  before  them,  relating 
their  several  adventun .,  for  the  general 
benefit  of  all. 

Mr.  Joe  Smith,  who  found  his  duties 
of  mald-of-all-work  rather  fatiguing, 
would  gladly  have  left  the  revelers  to 
themselves;  but  they,  having  no  one  to 
wait  on  them,  were  determined  he  should 
not  escape  so  easily. 

Unceasing  calls  for  Mrs.  Smith,  as  they 
named  him,  resounded  continually  from 
one  end  of  the  room  to  the  other,  until, 
at  last,  in  a  fit  of  desperation,  he  told 
them  to  go  to  grass  and  wait  on  them- 
selves. A  shout  of  laughter  and  a  unan- 
imous cry  of:  "Come  back!  come  back!" 
reached  him:  but.  unheeding  their 
shouts,  Joe  resolutely  made  his  escape 
and  set. off  for  a  ramble  by  himself. 

Sitting  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree, 
Joe  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  and  fell 
into  a  fit  of  profound  musing.  For  up- 
ward of  an  hour  he  remained  thus*  with 
brows  knit,  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground 
and  lips  compressed  like  one  in  deep 
meditation.  Suddenly  a  new  light  seem- 
ed to  dawn  on  him  and  he  sprang  to 
his  feet  with  the  triumphant  exclama- 
tion: 

"I  have  It!" 

"Have  what?"  said  a  merry  voice  be- 
side him;  and.  turning  abruptly  round, 
worthy  Joe  beheld  our  little  friend  Elva.  • 

"Wall,  now.  I  don't  know  as  it's  any 
business  o'  youm,"  said-  Joe,  surveying 
Elva   coolly  from  head   to   foot. 

"You're  mighty  polite."   said    Elva. 

"Wall,  yaas,  rayther;  Glory  Ann  allem 
said   so,"    said    Joe,    modestly. 

"Who's  Glory  Ann?" 

"A  young  lady  up  to  hum;  I'm  goin' 
to  be  married  to  her  some  day." 

"Nice  girl,  I  expect?" 

"Nice!  That  word  doesn't  begin  to  tell 
about  Glory  Ann  Lazybones.  I  tell  you 
she's  a  reg'lar  screamer  and  no  mis- 
take." 

"Shouldn't  wonder!"  said  Elva.  "Is 
she    as    good-looking    as    I    am?" 

"Wall,  now,  I  don't  know.  Some  folks 
might  say  you  was  better-lookln';  but  I 
don't.  You  ain't  so  showy,  you  know. 
Glory  Ann's  got  nice  red  hair;  and  red- 
haired  girls  is  allers  smart  and  spunky" 

"M'hey  are.  eh?  Now.  if  I'd  known 
that  before  I'd  have  dyed,  and  not  gone 
whimpering  through  the  world  afraid  to 


66 


THB    EBRMIT   OF   THE    CUFFS. 


^4 


1    ■■!' 


lifij 


call  my  soul  my  own.    Perhaps  It's  not 
too  late  yet,  eJv?    What  do  you  think?" 
"Oh.    you    don't    need    it.    Tou've    got 
ImpJdence  enougEh.    You'll  do." 

"Well,  really,  that's  cflol.    What's  your 
name?" 

-  "What's   yours?" 

;  "Elvena  Snowe— not  so  pretty  as  Glory 
Ann   Lazybones,   Is  It?" 

"Not  quite ;   hers  Is  a   Scripter   name, 
you  know.    Yours  is  pooty,  though,,  and 
sounds  sort  a'  cool  this  hot  weather." 
**Now  what's  youF»." 
"Wall,  14:  might  be  Beelzebub,  or  Nebu- 
chadnezzar,   or   any   other   Bible    name; 
but   ?tain't.    I-  reckon  I  won't  tell  you; 
I'd  rather  not  have  it  made  publie." 
-^•Why?" 

:  "Oh,  well,  Joe  Smith  ain't  a  common 
name,  so  I  guess  I'll  keep  it  a  secret. 
'JSIdes,  ther*8  no  tellin'  but  you  may  fall 
in  love  With  me;  and  I'm  anxious  to 
avoid  sich  a  c'lamity." 
"Y-ou're  a  case?  Aren't  you  the  boy 
De  Lisle  hired  yesterday?" 

"Wal,  I  mought  be,  and  ag'in  I 
moughtn't.  Seems  to  me  you're  very  in- 
quisitive," said  Joe,  suspiciously. 
:  "And  it  seems  to  n^e  you're  very  cau- 
tious. What  dayou  take  me  for?"  said 
EStva,  indtgnantYy. 

•^"Why,  you  might  be  a  good  many 
thtngs— you  might  be  Cornwallis  or 
Washington  in  disguise,  or  you  might  be 
a  spjt  from  the  enemy.  There's  never  no 
telHn'." 

"You're  too  smart  to  live  long,  Joe, 
dieai*.  How  do  you  suppose  a  little  thing 
Iflte- n>e  could  be  anybody  but  herself?" 
*<rt  does  seem  odd,"  said  Joe,  scratch- 
ing his  head,  as  if  to  extract  some  reason 
by  the  roots;  "but  then,  you  know,  it's 
better  to  be  sure  than  sorry.  I  like  to 
be  on  my  guard,  so'S  I  won't  leave  Glory 
Ann  a  wldder." 

■'■  "I  honor  you  for  your  prudence,  my 
son.  And  now,  Joe,  when  I  assure  you 
I'm  no  desperate  character — neither 
Obrriwallls  nor  Washington  In  petticoats 
— maybe  you'll  answer  me  a  few  ques- 
tldns?" 

'  "Yaas'm,  if  they're  noways  improper 
fior  me  to  listen  to." 

"You  sweet  innocent!  do  you  think  I'd 
ask  such  a  saintly  cherub  as  you  any- 
thir^g  improper?  First,  then,  there's  a 
yx>\xtig  lady  confined  a  prisoneir  In  that 
oM  house  over  there?" 
■"Wall.  »ow,  raally  couldn't  say."  And 
Jo^  looked  Innocently  unconscious  as  he 
issued  this  little  work  of  fiction. 
-  "Oh,  get  otrt,  and  don't  tell  fibs!"  ex- 
clftim(&d  Elva  indignantly.  "There's  three 
tJ^her  prisoners  there, "  too,  isn't  there?" 
"'^/S'here  might  be;  I  don't  like  to  say 
fbi*  sar*in,  for  fear  o'  telMn'  a  He."  replied 
JM,  B^ttttlng  oiie  eylfe,  "slnd  fixing  the 
<fth€r  reAectively  on  ;&  grasishopper  at 
ii[}s  feef.  "I'll  aak  wfieh  1  jfo  Mi*;  aftd 
send  yott  a  l(^ter  to '  let  you  know." 


"You  abominable  wretch!  I  know 
very  well  they're  there,"  said  Blva,  los- 
ing all  patience. 

"Wall,  and  If  you  know  very  well, 
where  the  mischief's  the  use  o'  askin'  me 
a  string  of  impudent  questions,  ^and 
callfn'  me  names?"  exclaimed  Joe,  inr 
dignantly. 

Elva  couldn't  resist  laughing  at  Joe's 
look  of  offended  dignity. 

"Yes,  you  may  larf,"  sai4  Joe,  with 
a  look  of  intense  disgust.  "I  s' pose  It's 
all  very  funny,  comin'  and  callin'  a 
fellar  names.  It  shows  all  the  brought'n 
up  you  had!"  And  Joe  gave  the  inno- 
cent grasshopper  at  his  feet  a  vicious 
kick. 

"There,  now,^  Joe.  don't  get  mad,  like 
a  good  boy,"  said  EHva,  patting  him 
soothingly  on  the  back,  "listen  to  me; 
I'm  Miss  Perclval's  friend,  and  wish  to 
see  her." 

"Well,  go  and  see  her,  then,"  said  Joe, 
sulkily,   "I  ain't  hinderin*  you." 

"But  I  can't,"  said  Elva,  "unless  you 
help  me." 

"Me!"  said  Joe,  opening  wide  his  eyes, 
"how?" 

"Why,  you  must  find  the  key  of  the 
side  door  and  let  me  In  that  way.  I 
don't  want  anybody  to  see  me.  Now  do. 
like  a  dear,  good  boy." 

"You  be  grannled!"  exclaimed  Mr. 
Smith,  losing  all  patience,  "can't  you  tell 
a  fellar  who  you  want  to  see,  and  not 
be  goin'  on  with  your  story  hind  end 
foremost." 

"Why,  I  thought  juju  knew,"  said  Elva. 
"I  mean  the  prisoner,   Miss  Perclval." 

"Oh!  that's  her  name.  Is  it?"  How 
was  I  to  know,  when  nobody  never  told 
me?    So  you  want  to  see  her,  do  you?' 

"Yes,  yes,  yes!  Do  let  me  in,  will 
you?" 

"Why  don't  you  go  and  ask  some  of 
the  others?" 

"Oh!  they  won't  let  me,  they're  hate- 
ful, but  you're  not.  Ah,  Joe.  won't  you?" 
And  Elva  looked  pleadingly  up  in  his 
face. 

"Wall  now,  marm,"  said  Joe,  laying 
one  finger  refiectively  on  his  nose.  "I'd 
like  ter  oblige  you  If  'twas  anyways 
possible,  but  if  I'm  found  out  the  boss 
wouldn't  make  no  bones  o'  stringing  me 
up  like  a  red  herrln',  and  I  tell  you  what, 
I  hain't  no  ambition  to  be  elevated  in 
the  world  after  that  fashion." 

"He  won't  find  you  out;  how  can  he?" 
exclaimed  Elva,  impetuously;  "he  is 
away,  the  men  are  all  loungin^T  and 
drinking  in  the  other  wing  of  the  buiW- 
Ing,  old  Neil  Crow  is  asleep,  and  there 
is  no  onie  plotting  mischief  or  making 
love  but  you  and  me.  There!  you  needn't 
look  surprised.  I  know  more  about  that 
old  houstr  and  its  inmates  than  you  think. 
So  now,  J<5fe,  ydu  'dear,  gbod-naturied 
looking  did  «loul,  Ifet  me  In  to  see  Miss 
Perclval  tihd  I'll  dandeat  your  weddiagr." 


THt!    ilBUXH'P    OR    THB    CLlP'Fii. 


97 


Mng  at  Joe's 


vide  his  eyes, 


ask  some  of 


Joe.   laying 


s  nose. 


This  la.8t  entreaty  had  a  due  effect 
upon  Joe,  who  indulged  In  sundry  low 
chuckles  at  the  Idea.  Recovering  his 
composure  at  last  he  seated  himself  de- 
liberately on  the  log,  and  cros'-ing  one 
leg  over  the  other,  and  fixing  his  eyes 
solemnly  upon  his  cowhide  boots,  fell 
Into  a  profound  fit  of  musing.  Elva 
stood  watching  him,  swinging  her  light 
straw  ha,t  by  the  strings  and  tapping  her 
little   foot   impatiently    up   and    down. 

"Well  now,  Joe,  I  hope  you'll  soon 
honor  me  with  an  answer,"  she  said  at 
last,  quite  out  of  patience.  "I  declare  I 
never  saw  such  a  stick  of  a  fellow  as 
you  are,  a  body  can  hardly  ge:  a  word 
out  of  you." 

"Bh?"  said  Joe,  looking  up;  "were 
you  speakin'   to  me.   Miss  Elva?" 

"Was  I  speaking  to  you.  Miss  Elva?" 
repeated-  that  young  lady,  mimicking 
his  tone.  "Yes,  I  was  speaking  to  you, 
Miss  Elva.  Did  you  ever  hear  it  was 
impolite  not  to  answer  a  lady  when  she 
speaks  to  you?" 

"Wal,  If  I  don't  talk  niuch,  I  keeps  up 
a  mighty  big  thinking,"  said  Joe,  "and 
as  to  answerin'  ladies,  why,  as  I  never 
met  one  yet  I  couldn't  hev  bin  very 
Imperlite  tp  'em." 

"Why,  you  horrid,  impudent  fellow, 
what  do  you  call  me  but  a  lady?" 

"Oh,  my  eyes!"  ejaculated  Joe,  with 
a  look  of  infinite  contempt.  "You  a 
lady?  You  hain't  no  inore  the  look  of 
one  than  I  hev.  Lady,  indeed!  You  git 
ouf!" 

"Well,  We  won't  argue  the  question 
now,"  said  Elva.  "Perhaps  we've  hard- 
ly time  at  present  to  do,  the  subject 
:(vstlce.  And  now,  once  for  all,  will  you 
grant   my   request?" 

"Why.  I  don't  mind  if  I  do,  seein'  it's 
you,"  replied  Joe;  "but  first  I'll  go  and 
see  Miss  Percival,  and  tell  her  you  want 
to  see  her.  By  the  time  I  git  back  it'll 
be  dark,  and  you  can  git  in  without  bein' 
seen,  and  everything  will  go  off  smooth- 

jy" 

^'That's  a  good  boy!"  said  Elva,  ap- 
provingly. "Maybe  I  won't  write  to 
Glory  Ann  one  of  these  days  and  tell 
her  what  a  nice  fellow  she's  going  to  get. 
Jiurry  up  now,  and  I'll  wait  here  till 
you  conie  back." 

So  saying,  Elva  seated  herself  on  the 
fallen  tree,  and  watched  honest  Joe  as 
he  shuffled  slowly  out  of  sight  and  dis- 
appeared among  the  trees. 

An  hour  passed,  and  Joe  had  not 
made  his  appearance.  A  deep  gloom 
was  settling  around,  the  dark  pines 
swayed  solemiily  to  and  fro  tn  the  night 
breeze.  There  was  no  JIght '  sftVe  thftt 
of  the  radiant  stars;  nd  sound  save  th£it 
of  the  'Wind  and  the  cry  of  the  katydid. 
The  silence  wait  almost  painful,  ais  @v& 
rAt  .w4M  with  ImpatlWBce.  At  length,  a» 
bite  W&B  dbbut  tt>  deirpair  of  hijai  coming 


at  all,  a  familiar  voice  at  her  ear  startled 
her   with    the   expressive    phrase: 

"Here  we  is!" 

"O  Joe!  is  it  you?  I  thought  you  would 
never  come.  Well,  can  I  see  her?"  she 
exclaimed,    breathlessly. 

"Yes'm!  I've  'ranged  everything  beau- 
tifully. I'll  go  back  to  the  house,  and 
you'll  steal  round  to  the  side  door  you 
was  speaking  of,  and  I'll  let  you  in. 
That's  the  way!" 

And  each  took  a  different  path,  both 
leadlttg  to  the  old  house.. 

The  side  door  sppken  of  had  long  been 
unused,  and  was  almost  hidden  by  vines 
and  shrubs.  Forcing  her  way  through 
these,  Elva  waited  until  she  heiEird  the 
key  turn  in  the  rusty  lock.  Pushing 
o.pen  the  door  she  entered  a  long,  dark 
hall,  where  she  beheld  Joe  standing, 
lamp  in  hand. 

"Here,  take  this,"  sa^d  Joe,  handing 
her  the  light.  "I  s'pose  you  know  the 
way  up  to  her  room  better'n  I  can  show 
you.  I'll  be  about  here  and  wait,  and 
let  you  out." 

"You're  a  darling!"  exclaimed  Elva, 
as  she  almost  llew  up  a  Ipng,  winding- 
staircase.  "How  I  wish  I  was  Glory 
Ann  Lazybones  to  get  such  a  prize  as 
you."  And  with  a  merry  laugh  she  van- 
ished amid  the  gloom,  while  Joe  gazed 
after  her  with. a  look  of  decided  f^d-  ; 
"miration.  '•  .. 

Reaching  the  well-known  chamber  of 
the  prisoner  she  tapped  at  the  door.    A  . 
low  voice  bade  her  enter,  and  withdraw- 
ing the  bolts,  she  passed  into  the  room. 

Edith  sat  by  the  table,  her  head  lean- 
ing on  her  hand,  her  bright,  golden  hair 
falling  like  a  veil  over  her  pale,  sweet 
face.  She  looked  up  as  Elva  entered, 
and  approached  with  extended  hands. 

Elva  was  shocked  beyond  measure  by 
the  change  those,  few  days  had  made. 
The  face  of  Edith,  always  fair,  seemed 
now  perfectly  transparent,  the  deep- 
blue  eyes  had  grown  dim  and  heavy 
with  constant  weeping.  A  long  Illness 
could  hardly  have  changed  her  more 
than  those  miserable  days  and  sleepless 
nights,  albeit  she  was  not  used  to  "tears 
by   night   instead    of   slumber." 

"My  dear  Elva,  how  glad  I  am  to  see 
you  again!"  said  Edith,  pressing  the 
young  girl's   hands   in   her   own. 

"The  pleasure  is  mutual,  my  dear  Miss 
Percival.  But  how  pale  and  thin  you 
are   looking!    Have  yOu    been   sick?" 

"No,  not  exactly  sick;  but  I  have  been 
ill  in  body  and  mind.  O  Elva!  how 
could  I  be  otherwise  irt  this  dreadful 
place?" 

"Very  true!"  said  Elva,  sadly;  "and 
your  friends,  are  thej^  rtiH  here,  or  has 
De   Lisle"—      ;  .  ' 

"Nq,  nof"  interrupted  Bdith,  hwrried- 
ly,  "not  yet!:  But  .when  hie  retumfi— 
O'Biva.'jElvaipr^ky  Heaven  I  may  die 
befWe  that  dreadful  tlm^t" 


58 


THtJ    HERMIT    OF    Tilt:    VUrFH. 


im 


"Not  so.  Miss  Perclval.  You  shall  live 
and  be  happy,  in  spite  of  all  the  De 
Lisles  that  ever  cheated  the  hangman!" 
exclaimed  Elva.  "We'll  see  If  woman's 
wit  is  not  more  than  a  match  for  man's 
cunning.  De  Lisle  will  not  return,  father 
says,  until  the  day  after  to-morrow;  and 
when  he  does  come  back  and  find  his 
hire"  has  flown  away  fr'-ni  her  cage 
idurlnr  his  rbsence,  wor't  tl  er.?  be  a 
scene''  Whew!  it  will  be  as  good  as  a 
ylay  to  see  hl»n'"  A.nd  Elva  clapped  her 
hand  J  In  Celight.  '- 

"Elva!  what  d-^  you  mean?  I  do  not 
understand."  said  Edith,  looking  be- 
wllderfid. 

"Why,  you  shall  make  your  escape 
to-t.iorrow  night— that's  the  talk!  When 
everybody  is  sleeping  I'll  come  her  ^, 
fasten  a  rope  ladder  to  your  window— 
climb  up— Iron  gratings  old — easily  takei 
off— you'lT  get  down — make  a  moonlight 
flitting- and  before  morning  dawns 
you'll  be  over  the  hllla  and  far  away!" 

Edith  caught  her  breath  at  the  vision 
thus  conjured  up.  But  a  moment's  re- 
ilectlGn  banished  the  bright  hopes  Elva's 
words  had  recalled  to  her  heart. 

"My  cousin,  my  brother,  and— their 
friend,  hojv  can  I  go  and  leave  them 
here  In  the  power  of  De  Lisle?  O  Elva! 
I  cdnnot  go!" 

"Bother!"  exclaimed  Elva.  impatient- 
ly. "What  good  can  your  staying  here 
do  them?  Will  it  help  them  any?  Do 
*you  think  your  marrying  De  Lisle  (as 
you  will  most  assuredly  have  to  do.  if 
you  wait  until  he  comes  back)— if  they 
really  care  for  you,  will  it  not  render 
them  far  more  miserable  than  anytning 
they  may  have  theinr.elver,  to  suffer? 
Whereas,  if  you  escapti  you  may  yet  res- 
cue them;  or,  if  you  cannot,  you  can 
at  least  let  the  world  know  what  a 
villain  he  is,  and  have  the  comfort  of 
letting  the  world  see  him  danco  on  noth- 
ingr.  Stay  here,  indeed!  Nonsense,  Miss 
Perclval!  I  beg  your  pardon  tor  saying? 
so,  but  the  Idea  is  perfectly  absurc?." 

Edith's  feelings  a/ways  caught  their 
tone  and  impetus  from  whoever  chr.nce 0 
to  be  with  her.  Now  some  of  the  daring 
spirit  that  glowed  on  the  cheeks  and 
flashed  in  the  eyes  of  Elva  animated  her 
own  heart  as  she  raised  her  head,  and 
said,  firmly: 

"Be  It  so,  then,  kindest,  best  of 
frien<Js.  i  Khali  make  the  attempt:  if  I 
succeed  I  shall  at  least  be  spared  the 
wretched  doom  of  becoming  the  wife  cf 
one  I  detest;  if  I  fail,  my  fate  can  be 
no  worte  thau   it  is  now." 

"  "Fall"  echoed  Elva,  cheerily.  "In  my 
vocabulary  there  is  no  such  word  as 
fal  .  No^  you  will  live  ani  laugh  at  De 
LJsle  yet." 

That's  the  chat!"  exclaimed  a  voice 
that  made  them  both  start;  and  turning 
round  in  alarm,  they  beheld  the  shock 


head   of   Master  Joe   protruded   through 
the   half- open  door. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE    BSCA^HJ. 

"The   lovely  stranger   stands   confesae^l 
A  maid  in  all  her  charms." 

— OoldRiTlltl) 

"That's  the  chat!"  again  repeated  the 
worthy  youth,  as.  seeing  he  was  dis- 
covered, he  walked  In  and  coolly  took  a 
seat. 

"O  Joe!  my  dear  Joe!  you  will  n<it 
betray  us?"  eclalmed  Elva.  while  Edith 
Kat    in    silent    dismay. 

"Don't  know  'bout  that!"  replied  Joe. 
"  'Tain't  fair  to  be  cheatin"  the  boss  in 
this  fashion.  La!  how  nicely  I  caught 
you  that  time!"  and  evidently  highly  de 
lighted  at  the  reoollecilon,  he  leaned 
back  and  laughed  until  the  tears  stood 
in  his  eyes. 

"O  Joe!  you  won't  tell,  will  you?" 
pleaded  Elva.  "How  would  yo'^  like  now 
If  Glory  Ann  was  a  prisoner  and  wanted 
to  escape  if  somebody  hindered  her' 
Just  think  what  a  heartrending  cast 
that  would  be.  and  let  us  off." 

"Wall,  now.  I  don't  know's  I'd  care. 
T'm  gettln'  sorter  tired  o*  Glory  Ann!" 
said    Joe.    coolly. 

"Unfaithful  youth!"  exclaimed  Eiva. 
in  a  voice  of  horror  "Poor,  deserted 
Glory  Ann!  But  since  that  falls  to  mffve 
you.  Miss  Perclval's  father  is  very  rich, 
ami  if  you  help  her  to  escape  your  i;or- 
tune  is  made." 

"Go  *.  .  grass!'  inr'^gnartiy  exclaimed 
Mr.  Smith  "What  d'ye  s'posc  I  caro 
'bout  his  money?  No'm:  If  you  han't 
somethln'  better  to  propose  than  that. 
I'll  blab!" 

"What  can  I  offer?"  said  poor  Elva, 
in  despair.  "Jr  it  mention  something 
y  urself.  Joe.  an(Z  if  it's  in  my  power, 
yji:  shall  have  it." 

"There's  one  thing,"  said  Joe,  mtdi- 
tatlvely. 

"Name  it — name  it!"  exclaimed  Elva, 
impadently 

'It's  very  easy.  tot>,  though  I  nrever 
thought  of  it  afore."  went  on  Joe,  in 
the  saine  blow,   thoughtful  tone, 

"Name  it! — name  It!"  exclaimed  the 
impatient  Elva. 

"Yes.  I  dor.'t  care  'bout  Glory  Am: 
— there's  uo  mistake  in  that.  Red  hair's 
common,  and  I  guess  I'll  take  to_some 
other  coloi'."  cortinued  Joe,  seriously. 
w^ithout  lifting  his  eyes  off  the  floo*-. 

"Oh,  you  wretch'  You  provoking 
creature!  Yo  i  stupid  old  th'ng,  you! 
Win  you  tell  me  what  ft  is?"  and  Elva, 
:osing  all  patience,  shook  him  so  soundly 
':hat  poor  Joe  looked  up  quite  ^atonished. 

"Hey?  What's  the  matter?  Oh,  you 
want  to  know  what  it  hi,  do  you?  WaU. 
you  see,  I've  got  kinder  tired  ix'   Glory 


ided   through 


C. 

Is    confensed 

— Goldsmltli 

repeated  th(» 
he    was    dis 
coolly  took  a 

you    will    not 
while  Edith 

replied  Jot* 
the  bosB  ill 
sly  I  cauglil 
ly  highly  de- 
n,  he  leaned 
;  tears   stood 

will  you?" 
yo'J  like  now 
•  and  wantf'd 
ndered  her" 
•ending  cast- 
)flf." 

v's    I'd   care 
Grlory  Ann!' 

aimed  Elva . 
or,  deserted 
'ails  to  mOve 
B  very  rich, 
pe  your  for- 

y  exclai.ned 

30SC    I    caro 

'  you    han't 

than   that. 

poor  Elva, 

something 

my  power, 

Joe,    mtdi- 

limed    Elva, 

gh   I   never 
on    Joe,   in 
one. 
laimed    the 

Glory    Ann 

Red  hair's 
ce  to_some 

seriously, 

floo'-, 

provoking 
h'nj?.    you! 

and  Elva. 
so  soundly 
^atonlshed. 
Oh,  you 
ou?  WaU, 
d  <>'   GWory 


TBE    H^yitMlT   OF   THE    GUWm. 


Ann.  as  I  Md,   and  I'd   like  a   change; 
so  I'M   help   the  young  lady   to  run   off, 

If"— 
Joe  paused,  and   looked  doubtfully  at 

T**iVJl 

"Well,  if  what?'*  reiterated  that  young 

"If  you'll  marry  me!'  exclaimed  Joe, 
l!ke  a  man  of  honor,  coming  to  the  point 
at  once. 

••Done!"  exclaimed  Elva;  "there's  my 
hand  on  It.  Who'll  say,  after  this,  I 
haven't  had  a  proposal?" 

And  Elva  cast  a  glance  toward  Edith, 
that,  in  spite  of  hers<'If,  brought  a  smile 
to  the  face  of  the  latter. 

''You're  a  trump!"  exultlngly  ex- 
claimed Joe,  "a  regular  stunner!  I  tell 
you  what;  I'll  set  free  them  three  coves 
down  in  the  lower  regions,  if  you  like. 
I  will,  gracious!" 

With  an  exclamation  of  joy,  Ekilth  and 
Elva  both  sprang  forward,  and  caught 
each  a  hand  of  Joe,  who  looked  a  little 
surprised,  not  to  say  alarmed,  at  this 
sudden   attack. 

"Joe,  dear,  you're  a  darling!"  exclaim- 
ed Elva.  "I'll  m^rry  you  a  dozen  times 
over,  if  you  liKeT'' 

"All  right!"  said  Joe,  "and  now  that 
the  courtin'  part  o'  the  business  is  over, 
Vpore  we  change  the  8U'>ject.  L.et'8  see, 
i«-morrer  night,  'bout  twelve,  be  ready, 
and  If  we  don't  fix  'em,  it'll  be .  a  cau- 
tion!" 

And  Joe  arose  to  leave. 

"But.  Joe,  won't  you  tell  us  what  you 
intend  to  do?"  said  Elva;  "just  consider 
I'm  your  better  half  now,  and  have  a 
right  to  know." 

"Don't  trouble  yourself,  raarm.  I'll 
tell  you  arterward,"  replied  Joe;  "and 
now  I  shouldn't  be  s'prised  if  'twas  time 
for  you  to  go.  To-morrer  night,  'bout 
this  time,  come  round  to  the  side-door 
and  I'll  let  you  in  so's  to  be  ready  to 
start  with  us." 

Elva  laughed,  and  with  a  cheerful  good 
night  turned  to  follow  him.  leaving  Edith 
with  a  more  hopeful  look  on  her  face 
than  she  had  worn  for  many  a  day.. 

The  following  day  Joe  did  not  appear 
until  nearly  noon,  when  he  informed 
Edith  that  he  Imd  told  her  friends  of 
their  plan  and  that  th^y  were  "tickled 
to  death  'bout  it."  To  all  her  anxious 
inouiries  as  to  what  that  olan  was  he 
only  replied  by  teiiing  hor  to  "hold  on 
and  she'd  «!ee  a^'ter  a  spell." 

With  the  approach  of  night  came  Elva 
who  was  silently  admitted  by  Joe 
through  the  side-door,  and  conducted  to 
Edith's  apartment.  There  that  worthy 
youth  left  them,  after  miany  charges  not 
to  be  asleep  when  he  called  for  them 
by  end  by. 

Elva  knew  that  three  nien  ramained 
each  night  in  the  orriddr  bef«re  the 
cells  of  the  priaonei...  aaid  how  Joe  was 
to  conduct  tliem  past  tttese  was  a  mys- 


tery she  could  not  solve.  Joe,  however, 
turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all  her  <iu«Htian8, 
and  repeating  his  command  to  be  ready 
lit  the  appointed  hour,  left^th^m  to 
themselves.  .*,:■•.. 

Pa««mg  through  the  many  halls  and 
passages  and  staircases,  Joe  at  length 
reached  the  opposite  end  of  the  house 
and  entered  a  spacious  sitting-room, 
where  nearly  a  dozen  men  were  seated 
around  a  long  table  in  the  middle  of  the 
rtooT,  singing,  shouting,  telling  stories, 
and  vociferating  in.f'  most  approved 
fashion.  At  the  head  of  the  table  sat 
Paul  Snowe,  the  father  of  Elva,  in  bliss- 
ful ignorance  of  the  plot  his  audacious 
little  daughter  was  weavl:  ~  *'^  free  his 
prisoners. 

"Hi  there!  Mrs.  Smith!  Where  the 
deuce  have  you  been  all  evening?"  called 
a  flashy-looking  individual,  known  as 
Dandy  Dan;  "I  believe  in  n>y  soul,  the 
tow-headed  scoundrel  is  forever  making 
love    to   Lady   Beauty   above-stairs.'.', 

"Come  here,  Mrs.  Smith,  my  dear," 
said  another,  "the  jug's  empty  and  Nan 
Crow's  asleep.  Be  off  to  the  kitchen  and 
fill  it,  I  and  here's  your  good  health, 
ma'am." 

With  a  smothered  growl,  which  elicited 
a  shout  of  laughter,  Joe  took  the  huge 
earthen  jar  which  stood  in  the  center  of 
the  table,  a-nd  set  off  on  the  errand. 
Pilling  it  from  a  lar^e  cask  which  stood 
ill  the  kitchen,  he  drew  from  his  pocket 
a  bottle  containing  a  colorless  liquid, 
and  emptied  its  contents  into  the 
Jamaica  rum.  A  smile  of  triumph  flitted 
over  his  face,  which  was,  however, 
changed  to  one  of  sulky  stupidity  as  he 
again  stood  before  the  revelers,  panting 
under   his  load. 

"Good  boy,  Jqu!"  said  Dandy  Dan, 
helping  him  to  lift  the  jar  on  the  table; 
"has  your  mother  any  nrnwe  like  you?" 

"Yes,  thar's  Ic*"  on  'em  to  hum,  but 
none  so  smart  as  me,"  said  Joe,  in  a 
tone   of   artless   simplicity. 

"You're  a  genius,  Joe.  Pity  they  didn't 
make  a  lawyer  of  you!" 

"No,  sir,  none  o'  our  family  ever  fell 
so  low  as  that  yet,"  said  Joe,  in  a  tone 
of  offended  prid6;  "mother  was  to  law 
once  and  I  never  wants  to  know  no  more 
'bout  It."  ,      „„ 

"And  what  sent  the  old  lady  to  law? 
inquired  Paul  Snowe. 

"Wall,  'twas  about  our  cow.  Our  cow 
and  mother  and  two  other  cows  was 
out,  and  she  kicked  the  minister." 

"Who   did?     Yonr  mother?" 

"No.  the  cow.  He  was  goin'  'long,  and 
she  took  to  jawin'  him  'bout  something 
she  didn't  llkp  'n  his  sermons." 

"The  cow  did?" 

"No,  mother.  So  he  comes  over  to 
'xnlaln.  and '  lie  leaned  agin  her  and 
takes  to  smoothing  down  her  back." 

"Rmoothing  your  mother's  hack?" 

"No,  the  cow's.    But  she  wasn't  goin' 


I'? 
il 


60 


TUK    HERMIT   OF    THE    CLIt'FH. 


!i:i 


to  take  none  o'  his  blarney,  so  ehe  Jlst 
turned  up  her  nose  and  told  him  to  go 
to  pot." 

"The  ^w  told  tjlm  so?" 

"No,  mother!  But  he  took  to  arguln' 
and  at  last  forgettin*  he  wasn't  In  the 
pulpit,  he  brought  his  flst  down  with  an 
almighty   thump  on  her   hack." 

"On    your    mother's    back." 

"No,  darn  ye,  on  the  cow's!  So  havln' 
a  spirit  of  her  own  that  wouldn't  put  up 
with  sich  Insults,  she  lifts  up  her  hind 
leg  and  gins  him  a  kick." 

"Your  mother  did?" 

"No,  blame  you,  the  cow!  By  gra- 
cious, I  won't  stand  to  hear  the  old  wo- 
man Insulted  this  way!"  exclaimed  Joe, 
indignantly. 

A  roar  oi  laughter  followed,  during 
which  Joe  stood  looking  savagely  from 
one  to  the  other,  and  at  last  turned  away 
in  evident  disgust. 

"I  say,  Joe,  don't  leave  us,  man," 
called  Paul  Snowe.  "Tell  us  what  hap- 
pened to  your  mother  and  the  other 
cow." 

"Find  out!"  said  Joe,  shortly.  "What's 
the  use  o'  tellin'  a  story  whep  you're 
too  stupid  to  understand  it?  I  wouldn't 
tell  you  another  word  if  you  was  to 
btist!"  And  with  this  spirited  announce- 
ment the  young  gentleman  gave  his 
pantaloons  an  indignant  hitch,  and  re- 
paired to  the  kitchen. 

Another  hour  passed,  and  the  uproar 
grew  "fast  and  furious."  Joe  listened 
with  a  smile,  and  a  muttered,  "It  will 
floon  be  over,"  and  patiently  "bided  his 
time." 

Gradually  the  noise  died  away.  Now 
and  then  a  heavy  sound  would  be  heard, 
as  one  of  the  drunken  revelers  fell  pros- 
trate on  the  floor,  »nd  a  long-drawn 
snore  betrayed  his  profoundly  drunken 
sleep.  Joe  went  In  softly.  Lying  under 
the  table,  and  in  various  directions 
through  the  room,  was  De  Lisle's  gal- 
lant band.  Paul  Snowe  lay  back- in  his 
seat,  his  head  down  on  his  breast,  sleep- 
ing as  profoundly  as  the  rest. 

Joe  seized  the  jar,  considerably  llght- 
rir  nov.-,  and  repaired  with  it  in  the  di- 
rection where  the  prisoners  were  con- 
fined. Leaning  against  the  walls,  half 
asleep,  were  the  remaining  three  who 
had  been  left  to  guard  them. 

"Who  comes?"  cried  one  of  the  senti- 
nels, opening  his  sleepy  eyes. 

"Only  me.  Ben— Joe  Smith.  The  other 
chaos  drunk  thelrselves  asleep,  and  I 
l>'''>Mght  the  jug  here,  thinlclng  you 
miffht  like  the  rest." 

"Thanky,  Joe;  may  you  never  die  till 
your  time  comes."  said  the  man.  as  he. 
together  with  his  companions,  gathered 
round  the  jug. 

"Don't  pee  any  reason  why  them  roves 
upstairs  should  have  all  the  fnn  to  them- 
selves," said  the  second,  taking  a  long 
draught.  . 


"That  was  my  notion  exactly!"  said 
Joe. 

"Prime  that!"  said  the  third,  smack- 
ing his  lips.  "Joe,  you  deserve  to  be 
naade  an  archbishop  of." 

Joe  took  the  compliment  with  all' hu- 
mility and  looked  with  delight  at  their 
eagerness  to  empty  the  jug.  Very  soou 
Its  effects  became  apparent,  for  the 
three  worthy  sentinels  lay  stretched  at 
full  length,  as  sound  asleep  as  thiii 
companions  upstairs. 

Joe  arose  softly,  and  took  the  key.s 
from  the  belt  of  one;  then  he  openod 
the  nearest  door,  and  Fred  Stanley 
stepped  forth.  Joe  then  noiselessly 
opened  the  other  two  doors,  and  Nugent 
Perclval  and  Gus  made  their  appear- 
ance. 

Joe  made  a  motion  for  them  to  be  si- 
lent, and,  lifting  the  lamp,  beckoned 
them  to  follow.  With  noiseless  step  they 
obeyed,  and  in  a  few  moments  they 
stood  in  the  cool  night  air,  free  once 
more." 

"Walt  here  a  minute,"  said  Joe,  when 
they  arrived  before  the  useful  little  side 
door,  as  he  opened  it  and  disappeared. 

"That  small  youth  is  worth  his  weight 
in  diamonds,"  remarked  Gus,  as  he  Joe 
disappeared. 

"He  reminds  me  strangely  of  some  one 
I've  seen  before,"  said  Perclval;  "but 
whom,  T   cannot  recollect." 

"Just  fancy  De  Lisle's  disappointment 
when  he  comes  back,  losing  his  prison- 
ers and  his  bride!  Eh,  Stanley,"  said 
Gus.  , 

"What?"  said  Fred,  rousing  with  a 
start  from  a  dream  of  Edith. 

"Ah!  I  fancy  I  know  where  your 
thoughts  were  that  time,"  said  Gus, 
while  Perclval  smiled  slightly,  but  said 
nothing. 

"Here  we  are,"  said  Joe,  reappearing, 
followed  by  Edith,  wrapped  in  a.  large 
cloak,  and  leaning  on  the  arm  of  Elva. 

There  was  but  little  time  for  congrat- 
ulations. As  the  whole  party  passed 
through- the  gate,  Joe  gave  Elva  a  nudge 
in  the  ribs,  saying,  in  a  very  audible 
whisper: 

"S'pdsin*  you  and  me  goes  and  gets 
spliced  right  off!  Where's  the  use  losin' 
time?" 

"Thank  you;  I  guess  I  won't  mind  it 
just  now!"  said  Elva,  laughing  and 
blushing,  as  she  caught  the  dark  eye  of 
young  Perclval  fixed  upon  her  with  a 
look  of  decided  amusement. 

"We  part  here,  then,"  said  Joe,  ex- 
tending his  hand.  "Good-by,  Elva. 
Have  you  no  message  to  send  to  Glory 
Ann?" 

To  the  surnrise  of  all.  he  had  suddenly 
lost  his  peculiar  nasal  twang.  Fred,  who 
bad  be*»n.vvatchlne  him  earnestly,  came 
forward,  and.  laying  his  hand  on  Joe's 
shoulder,  said: 


TUE    HEUMIT    OF    THE    VLlFh'IS. 


,ctly!"   said 


"Further  disguise  Is  unnecessary,  I 
know  you  " 

Joe  laughed  and  colored  slightly,  as  he 
lifted  his  cap  and  removed  his  wig,  and 
In  spite  of  the  dye  on  his  face,  they  be- 
held and  recognized  the  merry  face  and 
hlsxcK  eyes  of  Nell   Percival! 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THC  JOURNKy    HUME. 

"Oh,   she  Is  a  shrewd  one!— as  keen  as  a 
briar! 
Though   her  lip  pouts   with   love,    it  can 
curl  with  disdain; 
And  her  eye,  now  so  soft,  can  shoot  quiv- 
ering (ire. 
Ah!  she's  a  shrewd  one!" 

-J.  W.  H. 

"Nell!  by  all  that's  glorious!"  ex- 
claimed Ous. 

"Is  it  possible!"  ejaculated  Edith,  al- 
most transfixed  with  amazement. 

"I  thought  I  hb.fl  heard  that  voice  be- 
fore," said  Nugent,  •>:«,rcely  less  aston- 
ished. 

•'is  she  a  girl  or  a  boy?"  said  Elva, 
turning  from  one  to  the  other,  com- 
pletely bewildered. 

"A  girl,  my  dear,  a  girl!"  said  Nell, 
gayly;  "and  I  hope  you  won't  forget 
you've  promised  to  marry  me.  If  you 
do,  why  then  I'll  call  you  out,  and  we'll 
have  pistols  before  coffee,  as  sure  as 
shooting." 

"But  Glory  Ann?"  said  Elva. 

'Ah,  yes— poor  thing!  But  we  won't 
pursue  the  harrowing  subject  Just  now, 
having  no  time  to  lose,"  said  Nell.  Then, 
lowering  her  voice,  she  added,  hurriedly: 
"Can  you  give  me  other  garments?  I 
don't  wish— that  is"— 

"Oh,  to.  be  sure!"  interrupted  Elva; 
"we  w^ill  help  ourselves  to  horses  from 
De  Llsle's  stables  and  you  can  come 
home  with  me  while  the  rest  wait  in 
the  forest.    We  won't  be  long." 

A  few  minutes  saw  them  on  their  way 
—Nell  and  Elva  far  ahead  of  the  rest. 

"We  had  better  wait  for  them  here," 
said  Percival,  suddenly  halting. 

'Who  would  ever  think  Nell  so  clever!" 
said  Gus,  in  a  tone  of  delight. 

"Seeing  that  cleverness  don't  generally 
run  in  our  family,'  said  Nugent,  laugh- 
ing. 

"  'Pon  my  honor,  I'd  never  imagine  it. 
She  visited  me  daily,  too,  and  I  gave 
her  a  decided  blowing  up  once  or  twice," 
said  Gus. 

"She  told  me  of  that,"  said  Edith, 
smiling,  "and  seemed  quite  Indignant 
about  it." 

"I  say,  Edith,  who  Is  that  pretty  lit- 
tle dear  she  has  gone  off  with?"  in- 
quired FerclvaL 

"Why,  it's  Blvena  Snowe,  the  daugh- 
ter of  one  of  De  Liisle's  men,  and  for 


whose  unfailing  kindneos  I  shall  ever  be 
grateful,"    replied    Edith. 

"'I  hope  we  shall  not  be  kept  here  much 
longer."  said  Gus.  "Had  1  not  better 
ride  forward  and  meet  them?" 

"Meet  them?— meet  Nell,  you  mean." 
iiaid  Percival,   laughing. 

"Here  they  come,"  said  Fred,  whose 
quick  ear  had  caught  the  sound  of 
horses'  feet  In  the  distance. 

In  a  few  moments  more  the  young 
girls  rode  up,  Nell  arrayed  in  a  neatly- 
fitting  riding-habit  of  Elvas— the  bright 
face  'flushed  a  little,  now  that  the  paint 
was  oiT,  as  they  could  see  even  In  the 
moonlight. 

"I  have  coaxed  Elva  to  come  back  and 
bid  you  all  good-by,"  said  Nell.  "Would 
you  believe  it,  she  actually  did  not  wish 
to  come." 

"You  would  not  have  treated  us  that 
way,  dear  Elva?"  said  Edith,  kissing  her 
fair  brow.  "How  I  wish  you  could  come 
home  with  us  altogether!" 

"Yes,  do.  Elva;  we'll  have  such  glori- 
ous times;  you  and  I,  and— Glory  Ann!" 
coaxed  Nell. 

"I  cannot,"  said  Elva,  almost  sadly; 
"but  I  hope  to  see  you  all  once  more. 
You  had  better  hasten  now — delay  is 
dangerous." 

The  adieux  were  hastily  spoken.  Wav- 
ing her  hand  ih  a  last  farewell,  Elva 
turned  and  rode  off  down  the  forest 
path. 

There  was  silence  for  a  while,  during 
which  the  party  gained  the  highroad- 
Nell  in  advance,  between  Gus  and  her 
brother,  and  Fred  and  Edith  following 
rapidly. 

"And  now,  Nell,  tell  us  about  this 
strange  affair  of  your  masquerade,"  said 
Gus,  at  length. 

"Well,  it's  nothing  to  make  a  fuss 
about,"  said  Nell.  "I  suppose  I  needn't 
tell  you  that  when  you  went  off  that 
day  you  didn't  come  back,  as  we  ex- 
pected. Papa  was  away,  and  mamma 
was  making  a  great  time  about  it.  I 
tried  to  cheer  her  up,  but  'twas  all  of 
no  use;  she  insisted  the  whole  four  of 
you  were  comfortably  located  in  Abra- 
ham's bosom." 

"  'Pon  my  honor,  we  came  pretty  near 
it,"  said  Gus. 

"Well,  the  day  passed,  and  none  of 
you  came.  Mamma  was  in  a  dreadful 
way,  to  be  sure,  and  some  of  her  friends 
came  to  visit  and  console  her.  I  knew 
she  wouldn't  want  me,  with  so  many  to 
look  after  her;  so  I  asked  and  obtained 
leave  of  absence  for  a  week  or  two,  and 
as  I  was  always  fond  of  adventure,  I 
determined,  like  a  second  Don  Quixote, 
to  go  off  In  search  of  you." 

"Bravo,   Nell!"   exclaimed  Percival. 

"I  knew  how  to  find  the  old  house,  and 
felt  pretty  sure  Edith  was  there,  at  least, 
though  I  confess  I  had  my  doubts 
whether     you     three     had     not     been 


68 


Tun  ummT  or  THje  cuffs. 


Bent  to  'kingdom  come.'  I  determined 
to  disguise  myself,  and,  havlniK  colored 
my  fa^e,  and  i»rocuicd  that  horrid  tow 
wig,  I  dressed  mynelf  In  a  suit  of  clothes 
procured  fftr  the  occasion.  Before  ven- 
turing Ihto  the  power  of  De  M8l<-.  I  de- 
termined to  see  If  any  one  would  recog- 
nize me,  and  I  attuHlly  chatted  for  an 
hour  with  mamma,  about  the  farm  'to 
hum,'  and  'Glory  Ann  Lazybones,'  with- 
out being  recognized.  So,  of  course,  I 
knew  my  disguise  was  perfect;  and  I 
came,  saw,  and  conquered.    That's  all!" 

"By  Jove,  Nell!"  exclaimed  Ous,  de- 
lightedly, "you're  a"— 

•What?"  said  Nell. 

"A  regular  stunner!"  was  the  reply. 

"Well,  I  consider  that  anything  but 
a  compliment,"  said  Nell;  "and,  rest  as- 
sured. Master  Gus,  I  should  never  have 
taken  the  trouble  of  going  there  to  save 
you— but  as  it  was  Just  the  same  to  take 
you  along  with  the  rest,  I  thought  I 
might  as  well  do  it.  Being  wonderfully 
amiable,  I'm  always  willing  to  oblige 
people  when  It's  no  trouble  to  myself," 

Conversing  gayly  thus,  they  rode  along 
until  the  red  hue  of  coming  morn  ap- 
peared In   the  east. 

"Fred  and  Edith  seem  to  have  quite  a 
nice  time  of  it  behind  there,"  said  Nell, 
looking  back;  "I  expect  they're  saying 
a  lot  of  pretty  things  to  each  other." 

"Suppose  we  follow  their  example," 
said  Gus. 

"Perhaps  I  am  de  trop,"  observed  Per- 
elval,  smiling. 

"Here  th^  come!"  said  Nell;  "wonder 
if  they  overheard  us?" 

At  this  moment  Fred  and  Edith  rade 
rapidly  up.  The  keen  dark  eyes  of  Nell 
saw  in  a  moment  that  her  sister  had 
been  weeping,  and  that  Fred  looked  un- 
usually flushed  and  agitated. 

Lifting  his  hat  to  Nell,  he  said,  brief- 
ly: 

''We  part  here,  I  believe.  Allow  me 
to  bid  you  farewell." 

"What!  going  to  leave  us?"  exclaimed 
Qus  and  Perclval— while  Nell,  complete- 
ly astonished,  silently  retained  his  hand, 
and  Edith  bent  her  head  still  lower  to 
hide  her  falling  tears. 

"Yes,  I  must  be  at  N to-morrow." 

answered  Fred. 

"But  I  thought  you  were  coming  home 
with  us,"  said  Percival. 

"I  regret;  I  ciannot  do  so.  My  presence 
here  is  no  longer  required,  and  business 

obliges    me    to    go    to    N .      Good-by, 

Miss  Ellen,"  he  added,  with  a  smile, 
"give  my  best  wishes  to  Glory  Ann. 
Farewell,  Percival.  Gus,  when  shall  I 
expert  t<J  see  you?" 

"Let's  see,  a. week  at  the  furthest,"  re- 
plied Qus. 

■"3rery    well!      Until    then    au    revoir! 
Adieu,  Mjjjw  Percival." 

Her  Upg  moved,  but  her  reply  was  not 
audible    as  8h€  took  iii  hers  the  hand 


extended.  The  next  moment  he  was 
galloping  rapidly  off  in  the  opposite  di- 
rectitm. 

"Now,  that's  what  I  call  real  mean  of 
him."  said  Nell,  pouting,  "to  go  off  and 
leave  us  that  way.  I  don't  care  if  he 
was  twice  as  handsome  as  he  is,  I 
wouldn't  have  anything  to  do  with  such 
a  fiery-headed  fellow  for  any  possible  In- 
ducement." 

"Very  glad  to  hear  it,  my  dear,"  said 
Gus. 

"Well,  Ihen,  you  needn't  be,  my  dear. 
For  Indeed  I'd  no  more  have  you  than 
him." 

"Oh.  come  now,  Nell,  you  don't  mean 
it?" 

'Oh,  come  now,  Gus,  I  do  mean  It! 
And  I'd  thank  you  not  to  be  so  confident 
that  I'm  dying  about  you,  for  the  fu- 
turt'.  If  T  choose  to  amuse  myself  flirt- 
ing with  yon,  for  want  of  any  one  else, 
you're  not  to  imagine  I  care  one  pin 
for  you,  I'd  have  you  know." 

'My  doar  Nell,  if  I  thought  you  were 
serious,  I'd  tnke  up  the  first  broken  ram- 
rod T  could  find,  and  blow  my  brains 
out." 

"My  dear  Ous,  you  can  do  for  that 
as  you  please;  only,  as  you  happen,  un- 
fortunately, to'  have  no  brains,  I  don't 
see  how  you're  going  to  blow  them  out. 
Seems  to  me,  if  I  were  you,  I'd  try  to 
blipw  a  few  in,  instead  of  blowing  them 
out." 

"Nell,  be  serious." 

"Gus,  I  am  serious,  awfully  serious,  as 
you'll  find  out  to  your  cost." 

"I  know  you  Just  do  this  to  torment 
me,  yoM  little  vixen.  But  do  try  and  be 
good-natured  for  once.  Ne^,  you  know 
I  must  leave  you  in  a  day  or  two,  'and 
he  off  to  the  wars  again.'  " 

"Dear  knows,  I'll  be  glad  to  be  rid  of 
you,"  said  Nell,  In  all  sincerity. 
-  Gus  looked  hurt,  so  much  so  that  Nell 
looked  up  and  exi^laimed: 

"There,  gracious  me!  you  needn't  look 
so  sulky  about  it.  Of  course,  I'll  be  glad 
when  you  go  off,  for  all  my  other  friends 
of  the  masculine  persuasion  were  afraid 
to  pay  me  the  slightest  attention,  lest 
they  should  be  wasting  their  'sweetness 
on  the  desert  air,'  that  is  to  say,  on 
somebody  else's  property.  And  I'll  tell 
you  what  you'll  do,  Gus,"  she  added,  as 
though  struck  by  a  sudden  thought,  "go 
off  and  try  if  you  can't  captivate  Blva 
Snowe.  She's  a  nice  little  thing,  and  al- 
mo.3t  as  pretty  as  me." 

"I'd  rather  have  you,  Nell." 

"Oh!  I  dare  say;  but  you  see  you 
can't  have  me,  Gus.  'Tain't  everybody 
In  this  vale  of  tears  can  get  such  a 
prize  as  I  am  (not  to  be  egotistical). 
Wen,  dear  mel  (to  change  the  subject) 
won't  this  be  an  adVenture  to  talk  of! 
Why,  I  don't  belieTft  one  of  your. wonder- 
ful Lady  Aramlntas  in  the  roniianceci 
couW  have  done  it  better." 


THE    HERMIT    Of    THE    VUFES, 


(W 


ear,"  8ai<( 


m't  mean 


jerlous.  as 


be  rid  of 
that  Nell 


"Nor  half  bo  well,  my  dear." 

"I  alwayR  had  an  ImmenHe  renpect 
for  Joan  <Jf  Arc,"  went  on  Nell,  "but 
I'll  begin  to  admire  myself  after  I  per- 
form two  or  three  more  wonderful  deedn 
of  urms.  How  hot  it  la!  Poor  Edith 
(IroopB  like  a  flower  wilted  In  the  sun." 

"I  hope  you're  not  going  to  take  to 
poetry,   Nell,   If  you   do"— 

'Don't  be  alarmed,  Gus;  I  have  too 
much  respect  for  the  feelings  of  my 
family  to  be  gyilty  of  such  a  thing;  but 
poor  Edith  does  look  dreadfully  used  up." 

"There  Is  an  inn  not  far  from  here," 
observed  Gus;  "I  think  we  can  procure 
a  carriage  of  some  description  there 
that  will  convey  you  and  Edith  home. 
You   must  be   tired   too,   Nell." 

"Oh!  not  a  bit.  I'm  never  tired,  but 
we  must  try  to  get  one  for  Edith.  Walt, 
Ml    tell    her." 

Nell  drew  up,  and  waited  until  the 
others  had  reached  her,  then  In  a  few 
words  she  communicated  her  wishes  to 
her  brother. 

"Yes,  that  will  be  best,"  said  Perclval; 
"Edith  does  look  worn  out.  How  far  is 
thp  Inn  from  here,  Gus?" 

"Not  more  than  a  mile,"  replied  Gus; 
"we  will   soon   reach   It." 

A  few  minutes  brought  them  to  It, 
and  after  waiting  for  breakfast  they 
resumed  their  Journey,  Edith  and  Nell 
comfortably  seated  in  a  light  wagon, 
with  Gus  driving,  while  Nugent  gallop- 
ed on  to  announce  the  news  at  home. 

There  was  a  Joyful  meeting  at  Percl- 
val Hall  that  night.  Nell  was  decidedly 
the  lion  of  the  evening,  and  bore  her 
honors  with  edifying  indifference.  Major 
Perclval,  who  had  only  returned  a  few 
hours  before,  was  in  raptures,  and  de- 
clared she  was  "every  inch  a  Perclval." 
Mrs.  Perclval  gazed  upon  her  with 
moistened  eyes  as  she  thought  of  the 
narrow  escape  of  her  children,  and  the 
numerous  friends  of  the  family  were 
extravagant  in  their  eulogisms  of  her 
conduct. 

Edith  lay  on  the  sofa,  utterly  pros- 
trated in  body  and  mind,  too  wearied  for 
the  exertion  of  speaking;  and  with  her 
eyes  shut,  she  listened.'  while  her 
thoughts  were  far  away.  There  was  one 
wanting  to  make  that  family  circle  com- 
plete—one whose  name  all  avoided  men- 
tioning. 

A  few  days  restored  Edith  to  her  wont- 
ed health;  again  a  soft  bloom  began  to 
mantle  her  pale  cheek,  and  her  blue 
eyes  grew  bright  and  radiant  once  more. 
A  happy  circle  gathered  in  the  parlor  of 
Perclval  Hall  each  evening— the  past 
making  It  seem  more  happy  by  contrast. 

But  leavingr  the  Inmates  of  Perclval 
Hall,  we  must  follow  the  changing  for- 
tunes of  Pred   Stanley. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

TUB    HKItMIT't)    PREDICTION. 

"My  heart  1h  with  my  riutlvi'  lund. 
My   ,Mong   Is   for   her  glory; 
Her   wurrlorH'    wreath   Ih  In   my    hand, 

My  llj)H  breathe  out  her  Htory. 
Her  h»fty  hills  and  valleyH  green 

Are  HmlllnK  bright  before  me,  •  . 

And   like  a  ralnbow-Hlicn  Ih  Heen  -n 

Her  proud   flag  waving  o'er  me." 

-T.   H,   H. 

The  little  village  of  Grassfleld  was  In 
an  unusual  state  of  excitement.  Groups 
of  old  men,  boys,  and  women  were  scat- 
tered In  every  direction,  talking  over, 
with  exultation,  the  latest  news  from 
the  "seat  of  war."  A  splendid  victory 
had  been  gained  by  the  American  troops, 
the  news  of  which  haO  Just  reached 
Grassfleld;  and  now  the  matter  was  be- 
ing talked  over.  In  all  Its  bearings,  by 
the  delighted  villagers. 

In  the  barroom  of  the  "Battle  and 
Bowl,"  the  one  solitary  Inn  which  the 
village  contained,  was  assembled  the 
collective  wisdom  c  Grassileld.  The 
hostess,  a  pretty  little  black-eyed  wo- 
man, bustled  in  and  out,  attending  to 
her  guests,  occasionally  stopping  to 
glance  In  the  cradle  where  a  tiny  Item 
of  humanity  lay,  with  wide-open  eyes, 
making  desperate  exertions  to  swallow 
Its  own  tiny  fists. 

The  unusual  sound  of  a  horse  gallop- 
ing rapidly  along  the  street  caused  the 
whole  assembly  to  rush  pell-mell  to  the 
door.  The  horseman  drew  up,  and  con- 
signing the  animal  to  the  hostler,  passed 
through  the  gaping  crowd,  and  entered 
the  barroom. 

Pretty  Mistress  Rosle.  the  hostess,  who 
was  busily  washing  glasses  behind  the 
counter,  no  sooner  beheld  him  than 
with  an  exclamation  of  Joy,  she  drop- 
ped her  towel,  and  running  forward, 
seized  him  by  both  hands,  exclaiming: 
"Why,  Mr.  Fred,  how  do  you  do!  I'm 
delighted  to  see  you!  I  am  indeed! 
Where  have  you  been  this  long  time? 
Fighting  with  the  rest,  I  suppose!  Well, 
well,  who'd  have  ever  thought  it?  Sit 
down,  sit  down!  Well,  I  declare.  I  am 
glad,  r  1  you  see  my  Josh  lately?  No. 
I  s'pose  you  didn't,  though,  or  he'd  men- 
tioned it.  He's  off.  fighting  like  the  rest; 
he  is.  indeed!  I  had  a  letter  from  him 
last  night;  and  he  says  he's  quite  well, 
and  expects  to  be  home  soon.  Well,  this 
is  a  surprise!  Dear  me;  how  glad  I 
am  to  see  you.  But  sit  down.  la.  nr»e! 
sit  down,  Mr.  Fred.  I  declare,  I've  kept 
you  standing  all  this  time!" 

And  having  by  this  time  talked  herself 
quite  out  of  breath,  the  bustling  little 
woman  danced  out  a  chair,  and  flirting 
her  apron  over  it  to  blow  off  the  dust, 
permitted  Fred  Stanley  (for  he  it  was) 
to  sit  down. 

"And    how   are    all    my    friends.    Mrs. 


64^ 


THE    HklRMlt   01^    THE   0LIFF8. 


m 


i! 


Wilde/'  he  aald.  with  a  smile;  "for  your- 
self, I  reed  not  ask,  for  I  see  you  are 
looking  as  blooming  and  handsome  as 
ever." 

"Oh,  to  Le  sure."  said  the  lively  little 
woman:  "what  would  hinder  me?  All 
your  friends  are  well,  too,  and  Betsy 
HiggliAS  Is  married  to  the  tail<>r— you 
remember  her.  don't  you?  the  little 
milliner  that  used  to  be  in  love  v/ith 
you.  There,  you  needn't  be  laughing 
now;  if  you  had  been  in  Betsy's  place, 
I  guees  you  wouldn't  see  anything  In  It 
to  laugh  at.  But  bless  me!  I  forgot  to 
show  you  the  baby.  He's  named  after 
you,  too;  for  everybody  says  he's  your 
born    Image." 

T/ed  laughed  as  he  glanced  down  at 
the  little  fat,  red  face,  framed  in  an 
enormous  cap  frill.  Mrs.  Wilde — evident- 
ly delighted  at  the  striking  resemblance 
between  the  tall  form  and  dark,  hand- 
some facp  of  Fred,  and  the  little  blinking 
atom,  his  namesake— lifted  up  the  biaby 
and  deposited  him,  with  a  jerk,  into  the 
arms  of  Fred. 

"Therel"  e^^ciaimed  Mrs.  Wilde,  fold- 
ing her  arms  ahd  nodding  her  head  in  & 
very  satisfied  manner,  "if  he  ain't  yo»:r 
very  plcter!  It  takes  after  you  every 
w:iy.  toa,  for  It's  the  quietest,  Wessedest,. 
young  one"— 

Here  a  loud,  shrill  yell  from  the  blessed 
young  one  hi,m»*lf  interrupted  his  mam- 
Aia's  euloglum.  Fred,  who  seemed  rather 
afraid  o2  it  than  otherwise,  glanced  ap- 
nrehendingly  at  Mrs.  Rosie. 

"A.h,  you  aggravatln'  little  monkey, 
you!"  said  that  lady,  snatching  It  from 
Fred  with  one  hand  and  giving  it  & 
shake,  "stop  that  yellin',  or  I'll  turn  you 
up  &nd  give  you  such  a  spankin'  as  ye 
never  had  In  all  your  born  days.  There, 
Me  in  that,  then,  if  you  won't,"  she 
added,  dumping  it  into  the  cradle,  and 
leaving  it  to  its  own  reflections. 

Baby^'who  seetned  quite  accustomed  to 
this  kind  of  treatment,  immediately 
stopped  crying,  and  became  so  absorbed 
in  contemplating  his  own  little  fat  fists 
as  to  forget  all  minor  considerations. 

'  i  suppose,  Mr.  Fred,  you're  going  to 
?:rtay    all    night?"    Inquired    Mrs.    Wilde, 
resuming  the  washing  of  her  tumblers: 

"I  rather  think' not,"  said  Fred,  doubt- 
fully, "my  horse  is  lame,  so  I  was 
forced  to  come  here.  If  I  find  he  is  well 
enough  to  proceed,  I  will  go  oh." 

"If  .  not,  you'll  stay;  so  we  needn't 
tlMink  you  for  your  company,"  broke  In 
the  little  hostess.  "Hark!  here's  some- 
body else,  as  I  live!  I  never  did  know 
one  td  come  unexpected  but  another 
was  siire  to  follow.  Who's  this,  I  won- 
der?" ■■  "   ••  ••-■•' 

The  W6iider  was  speedily  solved,  for 
a  young  man  with  an  exceedingly  sol- 
dier-Ukf^  air  walked  the  next  instant  into 
the  batrroonk.  > 

"Bh,  is  it  possible?    Captain   Rogers, 


my   dear   fellow,"   said    Fred,    springing 
up.  and  extending  hisi  hand. 

"Stanley!  What,  In  the  name  of  all 
that's  wonderful,  drove  you  here?"  ex- 
claimed the  newcomer  in  surprise. 

"Where  did  you  expect  I  would  be?" 
said  Fred,  smiling:  at  his  look  o<  aston- 
ishirient. 

"With  your  regiment,  to  be  sure!  But 
hold  on ;  I  haven't  seen  my  old  sweet- 
heart, Rosie,  yet.  Ah!  Roste.  here  you 
are.  as  pretty  as  ever,  I  see.  Why  didn't 
you  send  me  an  invitation  to  the  wed- 
ding? Well,  never  mind;  it's  not  too 
late   to  salute   the  bride  yet!" 

A  Sound  box  On  the  ear  was  his  re- 
ward, while  Mrs.  Rosie's  cheeks  grew 
most  becomingly  red. 

"What's  this?"  said  the  young  man, 
who  bore  the  little  woman's  indignation 
with  most  exemplary  coolness,  as  his 
eye  fell  on  the  cradle,  "a  bahy»  La! 
what  a  comical  little  concern!  I  say, 
Rosie,  you  Jon't  mean  to  say" — 

But  Rosie,  wWd  wasn't  golns  to  put 
up  wItKhls  impudence,  a.dministered..  an- 
other box  on  the  ear,  with  no  very 
gentle  hand,  and  seizing  baby,  imme- 
diately decamped. 

Captain  Rogers  looked  after  her  and 
^-^.ughed. 

"Did  ^  ou  I  how,  Fred.  Rosie  ahd;  I 
kept  up  auite  i  spirited  flirtation  winter 
before  last?  *1 'on  my  honor,  J[  was  quite 
spooney  about  her  one  time,  too,  but 
Josh  Wilde  carie  along  and  cut  me  out." 

"I  never  knew  you  when  you  weren't 
spooney  abou',.  some  one,"  said  Fred. 

"Oh!  to  bo  sure!  there's  nothing,  like 
It.    t>on't  you  know  what  the»song  says: 

"I  am  in  love  with  tv^enty; - 

I  could  adore  aS'  many  mtire: 
There's  nothing  like  a  plenty." 

"You  hardly  find  as  much  ^tinie  to 
flirt  now  as  you  used  to,  I  ^ancy?"  said 
Fred. 

"Why,  no,  not  quite;  but  when  an 
opportunity  presents  itself  I  always  Im- 
prove It.  By  the  way,  Fred,  they  say 
old  Perclval  has  two  or  three  deuced 
pretty  daughters.  Pshaw!  man!  never 
redden  so;  I  Intend  to  cultivate  the  old 
gentleman  the  first  chance  I  get,  for  the 
sake  of  ma'amselle  Estelle — Edith— 
what's  the  name?" 

"You  may  spare  yourse'f  the  trouble, 
my  very  dear  friend.  She  would  not 
notice    you." 

"Don't  believe  it,"  said  Cabtain  Rogers, 
glancing  at  the  mirror.  "Never- knew  a 
female  heart  could  resist  me  yet!  But 
noiitswverrons,  mon  ami!  When  have  you 
seen   Ralph   De   Lilsle?"  .. 

Fred   started   at   the    name. 

"Why,  what  of  him?"  he  demanded. 

MOh,  nothing,  only  they  say  you've 
cut  him  out  there.  Serves  him  F^bt* 
too ^- he's  an  hifemal  villain!"     ;-  .';-... 


THE   HERMIT  OF  THE   GLIF^S* 


aji !    never 


"Have  you  seen,  him  lately?"  said 
Fred,  bttihgr  his  lips  to  repress  his  im- 
patience.      ■ 

"Saw  him  yesterday  with  youngr  Bates, 
off  on  some  expedition  of  mischief. 
But,  Stanley,  is  it  i^ally  true  tlutt  you've 
won   his   lady-love   from   him?" 

"Captain  Rogers,"  if  you  wish  us  to 
remain  friends  you  will  pay  no  more 
on  this  subject."   said  Fred,  sternly. 

"Gadso!  You're  confoundedly  touchy, 
Stanley.  Well  that's  one  proof  you're 
guilty,  .And  now.  may  I  ask,  if  I  qah  do 
so  without  offending  you,  whither  are 
you  bound?"  -     ^ 

"To  flPt"!! —  to  Join  my  regiment," 

'Thar s  lucky! 


Are   ydu   Ih   much   of 
a   hurry?" 

"Why,  no;  not  particularly." 

"Then  might  ■  I  ask  you  to  grant  me 
a  favor?" 

"Cert,#,inly,  my  deiir  Rogers;,  anything 
in  my  power." 

"Thank  you,  thank  you!"  interrupted 
Rogers,  eagerly.  "These,  despatches  I 
have  been  ordered  to  convey  to  Colonel 
— -;  but  an  affair  of  a  moat  pressing 
nature  requires, my  presence  in  another 
direction.  Now,  if  you  would  deliver 
them,  you  would  render  me  an  inestim- 
able servlccB."  -  '^  ''.''■■'•     •.'..:■ 

"With  all  my  heart,  my  i^ood  feUow., 
stand  and  deliver." 

"It's  rather  a  dangerous  busUaess^"  said 
Rogers,  drawing  a  foruiida'-jle-looklpg 
document  from  hla  breast-pocket.  ."Toy 
will  have  to  make  your  way  through  the 

forest  to  reach  .Colonel  M 's  quarters; 

and  there  are  lurking  parties  of  Indians 
and  tories  forever  prowling  about"— 

"Say  ne. more  about  It,"  Interrupted 
Fred.  "I  am  too  weH  accustomed  to 
danger  to  fear  It;  beside,  who  would  shun 
danger  In  the  service  of.  his  country?'' 

"You  will  start  to-night,  I  supposes ?" 
,"0h,    certaljRly;  '  there    Is    no    time    to 
flose^    Here  comes  our  pretty  hostess,  so 
not  a  word!":  \v 

7  "Weir,  Rosit,  Til  take  a  drink  and  be 
off!  What  have  you  done  with  that 
pocket-edition  of  Josh'  Wilde?" 

"None  of  your  business.  Will  Rogers," 
replied  Rbsle/  saucily.  "Here,  take  this, 
and  be  off;  I  can't  be  bothered  with 
you."     , 

Captain  Rogers  liughed,  drained  the 
glfiss  she  handed  t »  him,  ohuckfed  her 
iihdlat*  the  chin,  siv;  nted  a  ^careless 
good-by.to  Fred,  sprang  ua  his  horse  and 
amid  many  an  admiring  glance  from 
the  bright  eyes  of  the  village  damsels, 
rode  oify 

"I  thtflk  I  h»d  better  follow  him," 
remarked  Fred,  turning  Cttplessly  frgfttt 

•  ""You'H   wia^t-^  i^r -^iwier, .  wonH  .y<iu1''' 
sftU  BoiOe^    t'Gomfc..  ja#W ./  I'U  ^take   np^ 
refusal.    I  Jmva  eY&^miVB»n»JMntisto 
say  to  xttu.    T^re^  t  koew.  you  Wo^lA.'"^ 
she  tm^.  M  ^^  dmtled.  ^ust  wal)^ 


Into  the  parlor;  dlnner'll  be  ready,  in 
a  minute." 

So  saying,  she  laughingly  pushed  Fred 
Into  the  parlor,  closing  the  door  behind 
her,  and  leaving  him  to  amuse  hlms^f 
during  her  absence  as  best 'he  might.    . 

Fred  seated  himself,  and.taklQg  up  * 
volume  of  Goldsmith's  works,  was  soo|i 
absorbed  in  the  pages  of  "Sht  Stoops,  t(^ 
Conquer,"  when  the  door  opened,  arid* 
Mistress  Rosie  stood  again -Jbef ore  him* 

"There's  a  geiitl&man  out  here  Inamf- 
Ing  for  you,  Mr.  Fred,"  said  the  llttlfe 
hostess.  ' 

"For*me?"  said  Fred  Ip  surprise.  "Who 
.can  it  ^?':  . 


ijit^ 


w 


X 


,  "He  looks  like  some  of  tl^^m  oldrphr 
bers  In  the' pj[etures,"  said  liilts.  WUqe, 
"with  a  long  elbak;  wrapped  rounds  hlm, 
'knd  his  Hfet'  pulled  way  down  oyer  lilB 
eyes.    Will  I  show  him  4h?"     , 

"I  suppose  so,"  said  Fred,  inwa.rdly 
wondering  who  the  mysterious  persQnaiB|e 
could   be.  .  ./-   '" 

The  door  opened,  and  the  figure  of.  ft 
man,  wrapped  in  a  long,  black .  o1q^«c> 
•srtth  his  hat  pulled  far  down  over- h?« 
eyes,   stood   before. him.  - 

>  ITo  whom  am  I  indebted  f or  tha  hpnor 
of.  this  visit?''  said  Fred,   rising, 

"TO  a  friend,  young  man;  pne  w^ho  is 
no  stranger  to,  you."  And  removing,  his 
hat,  Fred  beheld  the  white  locks  of  the 
Hermit  of  the  Cliffs. 

"A  friend  you  have  indeed  proved  tO 
me,  good  father,"  said  Fred,  frankly 
extending  his  hand.  "Even  now  you 
were  in  my  thoughts,  though  I  hardly 
expected  the  honor  of  this  visit;" 

"You  will  ever  find  m«.  near  you  when, 
danger  is  at  hand,."  said  the  hei^lt. 

"Danger?"  said  Fred.  "And  w^jat  dan- 
ger threatens -me  now?"  ,   ■ 

".4..  soldier's  life  is  ailways  dangerous," 
replied  the  old  roan,  evasively;  "esp^ 
cially    with    so    many    enemies    as    ybi| 

''liBt  It  come,  then,". said  Fred,  care- 
lessly. "I  am  too  well  accustomed  tq| 
danger  to  shrink  from  it  now," 

"Perhaps  you  think  you  carry  a  charm- 
ed life/'  said  the  hermit;  "and  because 
you  have  escaped  the  bullet*  Of  th^ 
executioner,  and  the  halt^c.  of  De  Lisle, 
you  can  rush  into  greater  dah^rii,  and 
oOme  forth  soaihiess.'  YotJnsr  man,  ^  I 
say  to  thee,  beware!^ Last  n{gr8t;  when, 
the  sJtars  rodv^  in  solemn  splendiMr 
through  th^  heavens,  I  read  thy  fate. 
AH  was  dark  and  ominous.  The-qhadow 
of  the  scaffold  f6lr  redljr  aferOss^^y 
path.  The  steel  of  the  assassm  Is  sharp- 
ened for  the.  heiaFt  of  one  ydu  love,  and. 
,for  the  crime  of  another  shall  yOtt  die. 
Again  I  sa,y  to  thee,,  be  ware!  Be  warned 
hif  l!ktt«;^e>tso  youv^ihatt  Tepent  it  When 
top... latel ".,;.... -~.v  ■      '■"' '■  ''-"■^-  ■-    ■■  — •'* 

The  d^p.'  inteiMe«  ..passionate  sol- 
emritty-  with  which  "he  spoMe-^twedrln? 
▼ohihtarily  tliib  fearlefHs  taeact  of  Fred. 


■'m 


66 


s  :<  I 


I  ti 


TSS   HERMIT   t)F   TBE   CUFFS, 


I. 


A  iftenBatlon  of  fear,,  not  f  for  himself, 
but  for  one  dearer  than  all  the  world 
beside,   crept  over  him. 

"Old  man!"  he  exclaimed,,  seizing  him 
by  the  wrist  with  a  vise-like  gn'tp.  "who 
is  this  for  whom  the  steel  of  the  assassin 
Is  prepared?  Speak,  and  tell  me,  ior  I 
must  know."  '  .    ' 

"That  I -saw  not,"  replied  the  hermit, 
calmly.  "Can  the  lips  -oSt  man  reveal 
what  •  the  stars  speak  not?  ^Guafd 
against  the  danger  ivhlch  hangs  over 
yourself,  and  trust  the  rest  to  a  Higher 
Po-^'er!" 

"Pshaw!  I  might  have  known  'twas 
but  silly  raving,"  said  Fred,  shaking  off 
the  superstitious  feeling  that  had  for  a 
moment  overcome  him.  "If  you  have 
nothing  more  definite  than  this  to  warn 
me  against  good  father,  I  fear  your 
words  have  been   in  vain." 

"And  thou  wilt  not  be  warned?"  said 
the  old  man,  sadly."  "It  is  only  when 
the  \  danger  is  at  hand  thou  wilt  believe 
me?  Did  I  not  warn  thee  before,  and 
did  not  my  words  prove  true?  Hast 
thou  forgotten  thy  powerful  enemy,  Pe 
Lisle?" 

"T  am  not  likely  to  forget  him;  but  I 
fear   him   ixot,"    said   Fred,    scornfully. 

"So  thoir  didst  say  before,"  said  the 
hefmit,  calmly;  "yet  thou  didst  fall  in 
his  power,  and  yrould"  have  died  by  his 
hand  but  for  the  heroism  of  a  young 
girl;  The  same  thing  may  happen  again, 
when  there  will  be  no  one  at  hand  to  aid 
you." 

"Forewarned  is  forearmed,"  said  Fred. 
.  "Ralph  De  Lisle  will  find  it  not  so  easy 
'to  get  me  once  more  within  his  clutches; 
and  sHould  we  ever  meet  in  open  war- 
fare, then,  good  father,  you  will  find 
it  your  duty  to  bid  him  beware,  instead 
of   me!"- 

"Rash  youth!  thou  canst  not., read  the 
book  of  fate  as  I  can."  said  the  hermit, 
sorrowfully.  "Again  I  tell  thee,  danger 
is  at  hand — nay,  hangs  over  thy  head, 
and  over  one  for  whom  thou  wouldst 
give  thy  life.  In  the  hour  of  doom  thou 
canst  not  say  there  was  no  one  to  warn 
thee  of  thy  danger." 

The  tone  of  profound  melancholy  in 
^yhlth  the  last  words  were  uttered  touch- 
fed  Fred.  ISTdt  that  he  believed  what  the 
old  man  said— his  words  he  considered] 
the  niere  idle  raving  of  a  moonstruck 
idiot,  who  warned  him  of  danger  after 
hearing  of  his  narrow  escapes,  and  know- 
ing De  L^le  was  still  his  enemy._  But 
his  evident  affection  for  him  and  interest 
In  his  fate  reached  his  heart. 
'""Accept,  at  least,  my  thanks  for  th^' 
Interest  you  manifest  ih  hre,"  :^aid  Fred; 
'*liUhou^h'  I  may  never  make  use  of  your 
warning.  I  feel ,  grateful  to  you  for  it. 
And  now,  let  me  ask  you,  why  should 
you  care  So  much  for  one  who  is  a 
i^ranger  to  yoii,  and  whose  father  you 


have  Spoken  of  Jn  the  most  opprobrious 
terms?" 

/  moment  after  he  was  sorry  he  had 
asked  a  question  which  seemed  to  act 
like  a  galvanic  shook  on  the  hermit, 
whose  head  fell  heavily  on  his  clasped 
hands,  while  his  Whole  frame  quiverf d 
with    emotion, 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  Fred,  starting  up, 
"If  I  have  said  anything  to  hmrt  your 
feelings,  believe  me  it  was  quite  unin- 
tentional, and  I  am  sincerely  sorry  for 
it." 

"Say  no  more,  say  no  more!"  said  the 
hermit,  raising  his  head,  and  startling 
the  young  mein  by  the  deadly  paleness 
of  his  face.  "I  am  subject  to  th«>8e  cud- 
den  shocks,  and  do  not  mind  them.  Some 
day,  perhaps,  before  I  die,  should  you 
survive  me,  you  will  know  who  I  am. 
But  until  that  time  comes,  let  what  you 
already  know  of  me  sufl!ice.  You  think 
me  crazed— perhaps  I  am ;  but  there  is  at 
least  'method  in  my  madness.'  Believe 
me  to  be  your  friend — your  best  friend 
on  earth.  You  say  you  are  a  stranger 
to  me.  Believe  it  not.  Long  before  you 
saw  me,  I  knew  you ;  and  when  you  least 
fancied  it  I  have  been  watching  over 
you.  I-.ask  neithei;  your  love  nor' con- 
fidence in  return.  Should  we  both  live, 
the  time  will  come  when  you  will  give 
both  willingly.  And  now,  farewell!  I 
have  come  to  warn  you,  but  you  heeded 
not  my  words.  In  the  hour  of  your 
darkest  trial,  when  your  summer  friends 
desert  you  in  the  winter  of  aflliction,  I 
shall  be  near.  When  danger  threatens, 
look   for  me.    Until   then,   farewell." 

He  wrapped  his  cloak  around  him, 
drew  his  hat  down  over  his  eyes,  bowed 
with  stately  humility.  And  was  gone  ere 
Fred  could  f rafne  an  answer. 

**Strange  being!"  thought  the  ydxing 
man,  throwing  himself  into  a  seat,  and 
leaning  his  head  on  his  hand.  "Howdark 
and  mysterious  are  his  words!  Can  It  be 
that  that  simple  old  man  really  reads 
the  secrets  of  futurity?  'Thou  hast  hid- 
den from  the  wise  and  prudent,  and 
revealed  unto  babes.'  Wonderful  being,! 
Will  those  ominous  predictions  borne 
true?  I  have  already  seen  his  W«rds 
verified,  and  why  may  not  these  like- 
wise? 'The  shadow  of  the  scaffold !  falls 
across  my  path.'  Well,  though  I  "have 
escaped  twice.  I  begin  to  think  T  haVe 
been  born  for  a  halter,  after  rilt. -l"'can 
eas^ily  ,arcount  for  my  narrow  escape 
from  shipwreck  by  the  wise  old  proverb, 
that'  any  one  born  to  be  hanged  will 
never  be  drowned.  It's  a  pleasant  an- 
ticipation,  truly." 

^Why.  Mr.  Fred,  you  look  as  dismal  4s 
if  you  had  lost  your  last  relation."  satfl 
the  merry  voice  of  Rosie  Wilde,  breakr 
ing  in  uDon  his  reverie.  "Goodness 
gracious  me!  have* you  Seen  a  ghost^;  or 
are  you^  thinking  of  committing  gwiftn- 
tJlde?    If  you  are.  I've  a  botUe  of  lode- 


THE   HERMIT  OF   THE   GLIFF8. 


W 


[Pprobrioiis 

fe  »»e  hjKi 
ped  to  act 
»e  hermit. 
Ms  clasped 
quivered 

larting  up, 
Ihwrt   your 
lite  unln- 
sorry  for 

'  said  the 
startWng 
paleness 
hese  ffud- 
em.  Some 
lourd   you 
ho  I  am. 
what  you 
[ou  think 
here  is  at 
BeileVe 
St   friend 
stranger 

-tore  you 

you  least 

'ng:  over 

nor/ con- 

oth  live, 

will  give 

ewell!    r 

u  heeded 

of    your 

f  fiiends 

ictlon,  I 

ireatens, 
ell." 

d  him. 
.  bowed 
rone  ere 

yoting 
at,  and 
w  mark 
m  It  be 

reads 
St  hld- 
t.  and 
being! 

t<Mne 
Words 

Ifke- 
l^falls 

nave 

have 
l"'can 
scape 
•Verb, 

wllj 

an- 
al As 
saw 
6akr 
ness 
f,  or 
sftn- 
)d«. 


lum  out  in  the  bar  that  -will  send  you 
sleepiitg  c6int<frtably  to  the  other  world 
in  less  fMan  too  time.    Ho!  ha!  ha!" 

"Bgad!  I've  a  strong  notion  to  follow 
her  advice,  and  cheat  Jack  Ketch,  after 
all,"    muttered    Psed.  . 

"Well,  now,  dinner's  ready;  so  never 
mind  talking  to  yourself  just  now,  for 
fear  I  might  overhear  you.  So  come 
along." 

Fred  laughingly  accompanied  Mrs. 
Wilde  to  tlie  dining-room,  where  they 
sat  down  to  a  comfortable  meal,  to 
which  both  did  ample  Justice. 

An  hour  after,  as  Fred  stood  in  the 
parlor  with  Mrs.  Wilde,  previous  to 
starting,  another  horseman  galloped  up 
and   alighted  at  the  inn  door. 

"T'U  have  General  Washington  him- 
self here  next,  I  expect,"  said  Mrs. 
Wilde,  who  was  rocking'  the  cradle. 
"Your  coming  brought  them  all,  I  think; 
for  I  haven't  had  so  many  visitors  be- 
fore,  this  month  of   Sundays." 

"Landlady!"  called  a  high,  imperious 
voice,  that  made  Fred  start  arid  flusfli 
to   the   temples. 

"Coming,  coming!"  answered  Mrs. 
Wilde,  hurrying  from  the  room- 
Half  an  hour  passed  by.  Fred  stood 
with  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast, 
all  his  indifference  gone,  and  a  look  of 
fierce  sternness  and  Intense  hatred  on  his 
face.    Well  he  recognized   that  voice. 

"Gone  at  last,"  said  Mrs.  Wilde,  again 
making  her  appearance.  y 

Fred  looked  out.  a  young  man  passed 
out  of  the  door,  sprang  on  his  horse,  and 
rode  off.  but  not  before  Fred  had  caught 
a  full  view  of  his  face. 

It  was  tlalph  De  Lisle. 

"Well,  I  regret  to  say  I  must  leave 
you  now,  Mrs.  Wilde."  said  Fred,  turn- 
ing from  the  window,  and  striving  to 
banish  the  shadow  that  had  gathered  on 
his  brow. 

"Very  sorry  to  hear  it,"  ^  said  Mrs. 
Rosle.  "but  I.  hope  to  see  you  soon 
again." 

"Rest  assured  of  that,  my  dear  ma- 
dam," said  Fred.  "I  shall  certainly  visit 
my  little  namesake  as  soon  as  may  be. 
Good-by  until  we  meet  again." 

Raising  to.  his  litis  the  plump  little 
hand  she  extended.  Fred  passed  out, 
sprang  on  his  hOrse.  and  was  soon  out 
1-;  '«*gnt,  while  the  pretty  little  ho^ess 
of  the  "Bottle  and  Bowl"  stood*  in  the 
doorway,  watching  him  until  he  disap- 
peared. 

Night  found  him  making  his  way 
slowly  aiid  with  difficulty  along  the  slip- 
pery forest  path  in  the  direction  pointed 
out  by  his  friend.  Captain  Rogers.  It 
was  a  gloomy,  disagreeable  night.  A 
thinv  drizzling  rain  was  falling,  a  cold, 
sharp  wind  was.  sighing  drearily  through 
the  tre^B.  There  was  no  light,  save  the 
faint,  sickly  g^ow  of  the  spectral  moon» 
as   8fa«   lifted   her   wan   face   over   tlM 


bleak  tree-tops,  through  the  dull,  dark 
clouds- th^t  scudded  across  the  sky.  > 
'  Urging  his  horse  with  rein  and  spur. 
Fred  bent  his  head  to  the  storm,  and 
proceeded  slowly  onward.  There  was  a 
strange  presentiment  of  evil  hanging  over 
him— an  oppression  of  spirits  he '  had 
never  ..felt   before.    It   might   have   been  ' 

caused«jby  the  words  of  the  hermit,  hifl 
chance  glimpse  of  De  Lisle,  which  he 
felt  half-inclined  to  consider  an  omen  of 
evil,  or  it  might  have  been  caused  by 
the  dismal  night,  and  the  lonely  path  he 
was  pursuing.  He  strove  to  shake  off 
these  superstitious  fancies,  kjiowlrig 
there  might  be  more  tangible  evils  at 
hand,  for  there  were  always  lurking 
bodies  of  Indians  prowling  about  in  the 
woods.  Now  and  then  the  cry  of  some 
wild  animal  would  break  upon  his  ear, 
making  his  horse  start  anjl  snort  with 
terror,  but  no  enemy  had  molested  Wni^ 
and  ere  morning  he  trusted  to  be  far 
from  danger. 

Suddenly  an   abrupt  turn   in  the  road     '^W^ 
brought   him   jn   view    of  a   scene    that     "" 
'made  him  start  and  draw  back  in  alarm. 

In  the  center  of  a  large  semicircle, 
evidently  the  work  of  nature,  and  not  of 
art.  a  large  fire  was  burning.  Gathered 
around  it  were  some  twenty  half  naked, 
hideously  painted  savages,  who,  with  a 
large  keg,  which  Fred  well  knew  con- 
tained rum,  were  evidently  bent  upon 
making  a  night  of  it.  In  spite  of  the  In'- 
clemency  of  the  weather. 

To  e^jcape  without  being  discovered  was 
now  Fred's  only  idea.  He  turned  nolse- 
'pssly  to  proceed  In  another  direction, 
but  his  horse  reared  at  the  sudden  bibze 
nf  light,  and  gave  a  loud  neigh  of  fean 

It  reached  the  keen  ears  of  the  Ipdiaris. 
Snatching  up  their  weapons,  they  sprang 
to  their  feet,  while  a  series  of  diabollcftt 
yells  rent  the  air,  "followed  by  an  omi' 
nous  silence. 


4. 


CHAPTER  XXII.  v 

THH   STAKE. 

"Through  the  leafy  halls  of  the  wild  old 
wood, 
Rang  an  echo  full  and  free. 
To  the  -ravage  shout  of  a  fearful  band, 
As  they   bound   the   white   man    foot   and 
hand 
To  the  sacrlflclar  tree." 

— H.  Harlon  Stephens'.  ' 

EscAPK  was  now  out  of  the  question. 
Resolved  to  sell  his  life  as  dearly^ as 
possible,  Fred  drew  his  pistol,  and  two 
nf  the  .  foremost  savages,  with  wild^ 
howls,  bit  the  ground.  Maddened  by  the 
sight,  the  remainder  sprang  fiercely  upon 
him,  and  in  aplte  of  hie  desperate  re- 
slstancerhe  was  overpowered  by  ntnn- 
bers  and  securely  bound.  They  next 
turned  their  etttentlon  to  their  .  fallen 
companions.    One    of    them    was    oinlf; 


M 


'68 


THE    HERMIT    OF   THE    CLIFFY. 


■  ■',  9'- 


•«■ 


lii 


wounded,  but  the  other  was  quite  dead. 
A  long,  low  wall  was  heard,  as  he  who 
appeared  to  be  their  chief  touched  the 
fresh   scalp-lock   which    dangled    at    his 

belt 

The  savages  now  gathered  In  a  cluster 
together,  and  appeared  to  hold  a  con- 
sultation, while  Fred,  bound  to  a  tree, 
inwardly  wondered  what  Dame  Hprtune 
had  in  store  for  him  next.  In  the  red 
light  of  the  Are,  the  scene  resembled 
one  of  Salvator  Rosa's  wild^palntings. 
The  dark,  gloomy  forest  in  the  back- 
Kround.  through  which  the  wind  sjghed 
a  dirge-like  chant;  the  wild  faces, 
gleaming  eyes,  and  horribly  painted 
bodies  of  his  captors,  giving  them  the 
look  of  demons  in  the  lurid  glow  of  the 

Are.  .      ^^  ,*     # 

Fred  waited  eagerly  for  the  result  of 
this  conference.  Now.  and  then  he  would 
catch  some  fierce  exclamation;  but  as 
they  spoke  in  their  own  language,  he,  of 
course,  understock  not  a  word.  Often, 
too.  he  would  catch  a  look  directed  to 
himself  that  hoded  him  no  good.  At 
last,  they  seemed  to  ha>e  arrived  at 
sonfe  conclusion;  for,  rising  to  their 
feet,  they  returned  to  their  former  places 
round  the  fire,  glaring  savagely  upon 
him  as  they  passed. 

Left  alone,  Fred  was  soon  lost  in 
•thought.  He  seemed  to  himself  a  mere 
football  in  the  hands  of  Fate,,  to  be 
tossed  wherever  the  fickle  goddess  will- 
ed. In  the  power  of  the  Indians,  he 
well  knew  that  death,  speedy  and 
bloody,  must  be  his  doom.  Death  and 
he  had  been  too  often  face  to  face  for 
him  to  shrink  frrtm  it  now;  but  to  die 
thus,  afar  from  all  who  ever  knew  or 
cared  for  him,  might  have  chilled  the 
stoutest  heart.  To  die  on  the  field  of 
battle,  fighting  for  his  country,  would 
Aave  been  glory;  but  such  a  death  as 
he  well  knew  was  now  In  store  for  him, 
was  indeed  appalling.  Hf»  thought  of 
Edith,  freed  from  the  rower  of  her 
mortal  foe,  and  happy  At  home,  and 
wondered  if  she  would  ever  hear  of  his 
fate.  He  thought  of  th<  strange,  mys- 
terious hermit,  and  of  his  dark  pre- 
diction of  coming  danger  so  soon 
fulfilled. 

He  turned  his  eyes  to  where  sat  his 
captors.  Some  of  them,  overpowered  by 
the  eflfects  of  the  fire-water,  were 
stretched  on  the  ground  asleep,  looking 
like  dark  statues  in  their  rigid  repose. 
The  others  still  sat  drinking,  some 
whooping  and  yelling  fearfully  in  their 
Intoxication,  the  rest  silently  staring  at 
them,  evidently  more  than  half  stupefied. 

Fred's  position  was  painful  in  the  ex- 
treme. The  ligatures  which  bound  his 
wrists  behind  him  were  tied  so  tightly 
that  they  seemed  cutting  their  way  into 
bis  flesh.  His  position  was  painfully 
comtratned,  bis  head  being  the  only  por- 
tion of  bl»  body  he  could  move. 


To  add  to  his  sufferings,  the  storni. 
which  had  for  several  hours  been  threat- 
ening, now  burst  in  all  its  fury.  A  blaze 
of  lightning,  so  vivid  that  It  seemed  as 
though  the  heavens  were  one  vast  sheet 
of  flame,  followed  by  a  terrific  crash  of 
thunder  and  a  flood  of  rain,  and  tht 
storm  was  upon  them  in  full  fury.  Rous- 
ed from  their  slumbers,  the  stunned  anrl 
half-drunken  savages  gathered  together 
in  evident  dismay.  The  wimi  howled  a 
perfect  tornado,  the  lightning  still  flash- 
ed in  one  continual  sulphurous  gl|tre. 
the  thunder  pealed  as  though  the  heav- 
ena  were  rending  asunder,  and  the  rain 
fell  in  perfect  torrents.  A  tali  tree, 
scarcely  three  yards  from  where  Fred 
stood,  was  shivered  to  atoms  by  a  blind- 
ing flash,  and  another  was  torn  violently 
up  by  the  roots  and  hurled  almost  at 
his  feet. 

For  nearly  two  hours  the  storm  con- 
tinued in  all  its  fury.  Then  the  sullen 
clouds  began  slowly  to  break  away,  the 
lightning  still  flashed,  but  at  rare  inter- 
vals; the  thunder  growled  far  ott  In  the 
distance,  the  wind  abated  its  fury,  and 
though  the  rain  still  fell,  it  was  no  longer 
i.n  drenching  torrents.  The  savages  re- 
covering from  the  effects  of  their  first 
alarm,  and  still  stupid  with  liquor,  agam 
stretched  themselves  on  the  wet  ground, 
and  scon  lay  motionless,  like  hideous 
figures  ii^  wax. 

^Fred.  wet.  cold,  and  benumbed,  stood 
waiting  the  approach  of  day.  His  arm  5; 
felt  as  thoutrh  they  were  dead,  having 
swollen  from  bein^  so  tightly  bound.  As 
he  thought  ol  the  fearful  fate  for  which 
he  was  most  probably  reserved,  he  had 
more  than  rnce.  during  the  raging  of 
the  storm,  wished  that  some  friendly 
fiash  of  lir.htning  had  freed  his  spirit, 
and   borne    him   from   their  power. 

The  hours  of  that  dreary  night  wore 
on,  but  Fred  thought  it  the  longest  he 
had  ever  known.  The  gray,  foggy  light 
of  morning  at  last  stole  pver  the  tree- 
tops,  coming  slowly  and  unwlllingrly.  as 
though  reluctant  to  behold  the  disasters 
of  the  preceding  night.  Fred  recollected 
that  at  that  time,  twenty-four  hours 'be- 
fore, he  bade  adieu  to  Edith,  and  some- 
thing akin  to  despair  filled  his  heart 
as  the  certainty  that  Jie  should  never 
see   her   ainrain   stole   over   him. 

His  c|iptoK-  had  by  this  time  arisen, 
and  were  now  busily  engaged  in  making 
their  morning  meal.  This  over,  some  of 
them  wpnt  In  » parch  of  their  horses 
where  thev  had  left  them  the  preceding 
night,  while  two  others  approached  the 
prisoner;  and  having  unfastened  the 
thongs  which  bound  him  placed  before 
him  a  sort  of  hard,  codrse  cake  made 
of  Indian  corn,  a  gourd  filled  with  water, 
and  made  signs  for  him   to  eat. 

It  was  some  time  before  he  could  com- 
ply, for  his  hands  were  stiff  nnd  l>e- 
numbed,  and  the  food  none  of  the  most 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE   CLIFFS. 


0» 


(^   storn,. 

n  threat - 
•A  blaze 

'emed  i,s 
,»st  sheet 

crash  of 

and    th. 

'•   Rous- 
^ned  anfl 

together 
lowied  a 
"1  flash - 
|8  «^re, 
'e  heav- 
,;he  rain 
1"     tree. 

e   Pred 

la  blfnd- 

-^olentlv 

iioet  at 


palatable.  Knowtag,  however,  nature 
tniist  be  sustained,  he  essayed  to  eat: 
and  by  the  titne  he  had  finished  his 
meal,  the  rest  returned  with  the  horses. 

Fred  was  permitted  to  mount  his  own 
horse;  and  with  one  of  his  captors  placed 
on  either  side  of  him,  dashed  off  at  a 
rapid   galtop. 

They  rode  on  for  several  hours,  avoid- 
ing with  the  utmost  care  all  white  settle- 
ments, and-  a  little  before  noon  they 
halted  at  a  running  stream  to  rest  their 
wearied  animals.  Fred  allpr^ted,  and 
was  bound  as  before,  to  prevent  his 
escaping,  while  his  captors  once  more 
regaled  themselves  with  their  coarse 
food. 

All  traces  of  the  previous  night's  storm 
had  now  vanished.  The  sun  shone  in 
unclouded  splendor,  and  at  any  other 
time  Pred  would  have  admired  the 
beautiful  scene  around  him,  but  now 
his  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  captors. 

They  were  a  savage,  bloodthirsty  look- 
ing  set,  hideously  painted,  and  fright- 
fully ugly,  looking  fiercer  and  more  bar- 
barous in  the  clear  light  of  day  than 
when  he  had  seen  them  first.  They  ate 
in  solemn  silence;  and  having  finished, 
again  mounted  and  rode  off,  seldom 
speaking,  save  when  he  who  appeared 
to  be  their  chief  addressed  to  them  a 
few  brief  words,  evidently  concerning 
their  Journey. 

Toward  evening  the  party  again  halt- 
ed, and  made  preparations  for  the  night. 
PYed  was  again  bound,  but  ki  such  a 
manner  as  would  permit  him  to  lie  down. 
The  savages  then  proceeded  to  kindle  a 
fire:  and  seating  themselves  around  it 
after  partaking  of  their  evening  meal, 
of  which  Fred  received  a  share,  they 
stretched  themselves  on  the  damp 
earth,  and  were  soon  buried  in  sleep, 
with  the  exception  of  one  who  remained 
to  keep  guard. 

It  was  a  lovely  night.  The  moon  rode 
in  radiant  brightness  through  the  blue 
arch  of  heaven.  One  by  one  the  solemn 
stars  came  out,  looking  with  their  pity- 
ing eyes  on  the  pale  face  of  the  captive. 
The  cool  south  wind  lifted  his  long,  dark 
locks  off  his  noble  brow.  The  air  was 
redolent  with  the  odor  of  flowers,  and 
with  a  singsong  sound  in  his  ears,  Fred 
fell   asleep. 

And  sleeping,  he  dreamed.  Once  again 
in  fancy  he  stood  by  the  side  of  Edith, 
whispering  in  her  ear  "the  tale  which 
ladies  love  to  hear."  Suddenly  a  shadow 
fell  across  his  path.  Edith  was  torn 
from  his  side,  and  with  the  rapidity  of 
thought,  he  found  himself  swinging  by 
the  neck  from  a  halter.  A  shriek  of 
mortal  agony. reached  his  ear, ^nd  look- 
ing down,  he  beheld  Edith  struggling  In 
the  arms  of  De  Lisle,  now  transformed 
into  a  hideously  painted  savago.  With 
a  start,  he  awoke  to  find  his  dream,  in 
part,   realized.  .     ' 


The  red  hue  of  coming  morn  was  al- 
ready crimsoning  the  sky.  His  savage 
captors  were  up  and  gathered  together 
In  a  circle,  as  if  holding  a  consultation. 
Among  them,  Fred  beheld  the  fierce. 
dark  faces  of  three  or  four  of  De  Lisle's 
tory  band;  and  standing  above  him. 
with  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast, 
and  a  look  of  fiendish  triumph  on  his 
face,  was  Ralph-  De  Lisle  himself. 

"So,"  said  De  Lisle,  slowly  hissing  the 
words  through  his  closed  teeth,  "so, 
Fred   Stanley,    we   have   met   again." 

"So  It  seems,"  replied  Fred,  calmly. 

"You  see.  sir,  you  are  in  the  hands  of 
fate,  and  you  cannot  escape  me.  No 
doubt  you  fancied,  when  you  so  cleverly 
freed  yourself  from  my  power,  that  you 
were  safe.  Now  you  are  convinced  of 
your  mistake.  Since  our  last  meeting  I 
have  dally  prayed  I  might  soon  hold 
you  in  my  clutches  once  more;  and  now 
my  prayer  is  granted." 

"Which  proves  that  your  master,  the 
devil.  Is  good  to  his  own,"  said  Fred. 

"You  are  pleased  to  be  facetious,  my 
good  friend.  Well.  I  can  excuse  that  in 
one  whose  hours  are  numbered.  Fred 
Stanley.  Dame  Fortune  has  favored  you 
long.  One  time  I  almost  fancied  you 
bore  a  charmed  life;  but  Fate  can  bear 
you  BO  further  than  the  ,end,  and  your 
hour  has  come.  For  your  present  risk, 
you  have  no  one  to  thank  but  yourself; 
and.  being  such  a  hot-headed  fool,  our 
dusky  friends  yonder  will  prevent  your 
getting  into  any  more  scrapes  by  send- 
ing you  to  Heaven,  where  you  belong,  the 
first  opportunity.  Dream  no  longer  that 
you  can  escape.  Yonder  sun  which  la 
rising,  you  will  never  see  set.  Ere  three 
hours  we  shall  have  reached  the.  Indian 
village,  where  the  stake  is  prepared,  and 
your  doom  is  sealed.  No  power,  either 
in  heaven  or  earth,  can  save  ^you  now. 
And  if,  as  you  say.  the  devil  is  my  mas- 
ter, I  most  sincerely  thank  him  for  pre^- 
servlng  you  from  the  rope,  since  it  has 
reserved  you  for  the  far  more  horrible 
fate  of  death  by  slow  torture.  I  shall 
faithfully,  like  a  true  friend,  stand  by 
you  to  the  last,  and  witnessing  your 
death-agony,  console  you  by  the  agr<  e- 
able  information  that,  in  spite  of  fate, 
Edith  Perclval  shall  yet  be  mine.  Doubt ^, 
lesd  she  Imagines,  as  you  did  a  few; 
hours  ago.  that  she  has  escaped  me  for- 
ever. Like  you.  she  will  find  her  mis- 
take ere  long;  and  I  swear,  she  shall 
repent  in  dust  and  ashes  for  her  scorn 
of  me.  Ha!  you  change  color.  I  thought 
that  would  touch  you.  I  see  you  can 
fear  for  her  though  not  for  yoyrself. 
Well,  every  indignity  that  woman  can 
endure  shall  be  hers  until  your  dainty 
lady-lo^te  shall  weep  for  the  hour  she 
was   born." 

De  Lisle  paused,  while  his  eyes  actu- 
ally   blazed.    An    infernal    spirit    mlglit 


•» 


THE   HERMfT   OF   THE   GUFF8. 


.-rr 


I  Bit 


1:1. 


have  envied-  the  diaboHeal- triumph  that 
ahone  In  his  face.  .;-.;■, 
•  " Villain!  monster!  devH!"  cried  Fred, 
.almost  maddened  by  his  words.  "An 
hour  of  fearful  reckoning  wll}  yet  come 
for  all  this." 

.  "Tou  are  disposed  to  moralizej  my 
dear  Stanley,"  said  De  Lisle,  with  his 
usual  mocktng  sneer.  "Well,  doubtless, 
the  near  approach  of  death  doe»  incline 
men  that  way.  As  for  the  future  reck- 
oning you  threaten  me  with,  believe  in 
It  If  you  will;  as  for  me,  I  have  a  spirit 
above  such  hypocritical  whining  and 
preachers'  cant.  However,  I  will  not 
argue  the  matter  now,  as  in  a  few  hours 
you  will  havei  an  opportunity  of  knowing 
•which  of  us  is  right.  If,  when  you  reach, 
the^  other  world,  you  really  do  see  the 
gentleman  in  black— my  maiJter,  you 
know — just  give  him  n>y  Gompllments, 
-Will  you,  and  tell  him  f  trust  he  will  al- 
wavs  remain  as  true  a  frlejid  to  me  as 
he  has  up  to  the  present.  Ah!  here  comes 
my  friend  Long  Knife — suggestive  name, 
Isn't  it?  I  will  leave  you  to  meditation 
and  prayer,  hoping  you  will  offer  up  a 
good  word  for  Edith  and  me  while  I 
consult  with  yonder  dusky  chieftain." 
And  lifting  his  hat  with  mock  politeness, 
I>e  Lisle  turned  on  his  heel  and  strode 
a.way. 

.It  would  be 'impossible  to  give  fii\  idea 
of  the  torrent  of  fiery,  passionate,  mad- 
dening thoughts  that  leaped  in  burning 
chaos  through  the  brain  of  Fred.  The 
Image  of  Edith  in  the  power  of  De  Lislf, 
that  demon  in  human  form,  was  ever 
before  him.  And  he  knew  of  the  fate  in 
stjore  for  her,  and  yet  was  unaMe  to 
'  assist  her.  He  grew  maddened,  frenzied 
at  the  thought,  and  struggled  to  burst 
his  bonds,  until,  finding  an  his  efforts 
Ineffectual,  he  sank  back  exhausted. 

Standing  at  a  few  yards  distant,  talk- 
ing to  a  frightfully  painted  savage— who, 
from  the  number  of  feathers  waving 
from  his  scalplQck,  appeared  to  be  a  chief 
of  unusual  distinction— stood  i)e  Lisle. 
He  saw  the  impression  his  words  had 
made  and  the  smile  of  gratified  hatred 
on  his  lips;  and  the  light  of  triumphant 
malice  in  his  eyes  made  him  appear 
more  of  a  demon  than  ever. 

After  a  few  moments'  rapid  conversa- 
stion,  the  parties  separated,  and  mount- 
ing their  horses,  prepared  to  start.  Fred 
rose  as  before,  guarded  by  twq  of  the 
Indians.  De  Lisle  put  himself  at  the 
head  of  his  own  men,'  not  mor^  than  half 
a  dozen  In  number,  and  aJl  dashed  off. 

Fop  over  .  three  hourr  they  rode  on 
rapidly,  and  almost  In  slience.  Now  and 
then  De  Lisle  would  turn  to  converse 
with  the  man  Paul  Showe,  who  formed 
«ne  of  his  party;  but  this  was  only  at 
fcatervals.  and  each  seemed  too  much  ab- 
sorbed In  his  qwn-  reflectinns  to  talk.  . 
» .  At  levtf^^  as  they  rea^shed  the  summit 
of  a  high  hill,  the  whole  party  drew  rein, 


and  paused- for  "a  moment.  Befow  them 
lay  an  Indian  village,  enveloped  by  en- 
circling hills,  and  forming  a  sort  of  circle 
of  thirty  huts  or  thereabouts.  The  whole 
population  of  the  village  seemend  to  have 
turned  out  to  meet  theip:;  and  with  wild 
shouts,  more  than  half  of  Fred'«  captors 
dashed  off,  leaving  hira  wltJr  De  Lisle's 
men  and  the  others  to  follow  more 
slowly. 

As  Fred  neared  the  village  he  turned 
to  gaze  on  them,  and  was  forced  to 
think  that  a  more  repulsive-looking  set 
he  had  never  beheld.  The  wome*i  were 
even  worse  than  the  men,  with  their 
flat.  unintellectiMiI-looklng  faces,  dirty 
persons,  and  savage,  -unpitying  eyes. 
Every  look  was  bent  upon  him.  as  he 
rode  past,  but  all  were  fierce  and  stern, 
and  even  the  children  seemed  to  glare 
with  their  dark  eyes  as  fiendishly  as 
their   parents. 

One  of  the  Indians  made  a  sign  for 
Fred  to  dismount:  and  bidding  him  fol- 
low, led  the  way  toward  one  of  the  huts, 
the  crowd  opening  right  and  left  to  allow 
them  to  pass.  I»ushing  aside  the  skin 
which  served  for  a  door,  he  motioned 
him  to  enter,  and  then  binding  him  hand 
and  foot,  he  seated  himself  beside  the 
door  to  keep  guard,  with  his  scowling 
black  eyes  fited  on  hia  prisoner,  with 
the   steady   gaze  of  a  basilisk. 

Fred  had  made  no  resistance,  knowing 
it  would  be  wOrse  than  useless;  and  now 
he  sat  with  hIa  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
ground,  striving  to  collect  hia  thoughts 
and  think  calmly.  In  vaini  an  was  wild 
confusion  in  his  >eart  and  brain,  every- 
thing seemed  red  a^^d  darifcing  before  his 
eyes.  Death!  death*  seemed  written  In 
fiery  characters  everywhere  he  turned. 
Never  had  he  felt  so  dreadful  a  certainty 
that  his  last  hour  was  come,  than  when 
sitting  there,  expecting  each  moment  to 
be  led  forth  to  the  stake.  He  felt  art 
that  bitter  moment  that  De  Lisle'a 
words  were  true,  and  that  it  would  have 
been  better  to  have  died  by  the  halter 
than  to  be  reserved  for  the  fearful  doom 
now  in  store  for  him.  His  bodily  suffer- 
ing almost  equaled  the  mental,  for  the 
ligatures  which  bound  him  were  cutting 
into  the  quivering  fiesh,  and  his  posture 
was  so  constrained  that  he  could  not 
move.  He  strove  to  pray;  but  the  hated 
Image  pf  De  Lisle,  at  such  times,  would 
rise  before  him,  driving  away  the  pity- 
ing form  of  his  good  angel,  and  filling 
his  mind  with  fierce,  bitter  thoughts. 

And  so  two  or  three  hours-  passed 
away.  His  savage  jailer  still  crouched 
at  the  door,  glaring  upon  hIra  with  his 
eyes  of  fire,  his  half  naked,  horribly 
painted  body  and  scarred  face  giving 
him  the  apnearance  of  some  hideous 
painting,  rather  than  a  living  man.  Now 
and  then  a  bright  ray  of  sunshine  would 
ateal  in  through  some  chink,  falling  like 
an  anifel  hand' on  the  black,  glosfiy  locks 


Tt£ti    UK  If  MIT    OF    Till-:  CLIFFs) 


■ii' 


[f  turned 
proed    to 

l^'ng-  set 
ie*i  were 
th    their 
^s.    dirty 
8"    eyes, 
as  he 
|<J  stern, 
to  glare 
shJy   as 


of  the  'captive.'  Tttl»re  was  a  drowsy 
stillness  In  the  air,  rendered  more  op- 
pressive by  the  dull.  monot(»nous  hum 
that  cante  from  the  village.  At  length, 
a  profound  stillness  for  a  few  moments 
pupceedetl.  Fred  listened  In  ponder,  and 
ev^n  hla  guard  betrayed  some  sign  of 
interest.  They  could  almost  hear  each 
other  breathe,  so  profound  was  the  still- 
ness, when  lo!  a  yell  so  fierce,  so  savage, 
?o  diabolical,  that  It  seemed  to  come 
from  the  depths  of  panden)x>i)tum,  broke 
upon  their  ears.  With  an  answering  cry, 
the  Indian  guard  spi^ng  to  his  feet, 
and  turned  to  Fred  with. such  a  look  of 
fiendish  triumph,  that  he  could  no  longer 
doubt  what  these  shouts  purported. 
Thoy   were   his  death-warrant. 

A  moment  after,  and  the  skin  at  the 
entrance  was  burst  rudely  aside,  and 
two  fierce,  hideous-looking  warriors 
entered  and  spoke  a  few  words  to  the 
^uard,  who  Immediately  rushed  Irom  the 
hut.  Then  approaching  Fred,  they  sever- 
ed his  bonds,  and  made  signs  for  him 
to  rise.  With  some  difficulty  he  obeyed, 
for  his  limbs  were  cramped  and  painful 
in  the  extreme.  Then  motioning  him  to 
follow,  they  led  the  way  Into  the  air. 

It  was  a  golden,  glowing  summer  day. 
The  sun  shone  In  a  sky  of  unclouded 
i)lue,  and  poured  a  glow  of  light  and 
lieat  over  the  green  earth.  The  air  was 
lieavy  with  the  odor  of  flowers,  and  the 
dear  chirping  of  numberless  birds  min- 
gled gently  with  the  dreamy  murmur  of 
the  trees.  Never  had  nature  appeared 
so  lovely  to  him  before,  as  he  cast  one 
long,    last,    lingering    look   around. 

A  series  of  unearthly  yells  greeted  him 
as  he  appeared.  The  whole  population 
of  the  village — warriors,  squaws,  and 
papooses  had  assembled  around  a  large 
stake,  firmly  driven  In  the  yielding  earth, 
and  were  glaring  upon  him  with  their 
fierce  eyes. 

Around  the  stake  was  a  pile  of  fagots 
ready  to  be  set  on  fire,  and  leading 
him  toward  It,  they  bound  his  arms 
fti'mly  behlndjilm  to  the  stake. 

Almiost  uhknown  to  himself,  there  had 
been  hitherto  a  wild  hope  still  lingering 
in  Fred's  breast— a  hope  that  fate,  or 
rather  Providence,  had  rtot  reserved'  him 
foi-  a  doom  so  fearful.  But  now  the  last 
faint  spark  of  hope  died  out,  and  wltix 
it  went  all  his  w^ild,  tumultuous  thought iii 
and  a  deep,  settled  calm  took  their  place. 

He  looked  up,  Before  him  stood  Del 
Lisle,  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast, ' 
gazing  upon  him  with  his  evil  eyes.  The 
4  sneering  smile  of  a  demon  was  on  his 
facie,  all  the  intense  hatred  and  revenge 
he'  had  ever  cherished  glowed  In  hie 
features,  and  a  light  of  Intense  malignity 
glittered   In   his  serpent-Hke   eyes. 

"Wfll.  Fred  Stanley,  we  have  met  for 
the  last  time,*'  he  b$.VA,  mockingly.  "T9U 
st>e  now  the  death  you  were  born  fol: — 


vout    doom   is  to   roa.qt  alive  by   a   slow 
nre." 

Fred  made  no' reply.  Fixing  hlr  ey  s 
on  De  Liale'.s  face,  he  gased  upon  him 
so  long,  so  fixed,  so  steadily,  that  in- 
vdluntarlly  he  quailed  before  him.  It 
was  but  for  a  moment,  however,  and 
recovering  himself,   he   went  on: 

"And  have  you  no  message  to  send  t() 
Edith?  I  go  from  here  to-night,  and 
with  the  help  of  my  master,  bi?fore  re- 
ferred to.  T  shall  carry  her  off  In  spite 
of  them  all.  to  where  they  will  never 
again  behold  her.  Look  as  fierce  as  you 
please,  mv  good  fellow;  I  rather  enjoji* 
It  than  otherwise,  slnee  It  tells  me  you 
feel.  Once,  had  I  not  hated  you  so  in- 
tensely, with  a  hatred  that  became  pan 
of  my  very  being.  I  could  have  envied 
you  for  the  heart  you  had  won— a  heaft 
which  I  will  yet  trample  under  my  feet; 
until  your  fat^  will  seem  an'envlable  one 
compared  with  hers.  She  despised  me, 
spurned  me  with  contempt  for  the  gay,' 
the  handsome,  the  fascinating,  the  gal- 
lant Fred  Stanley;  and  In  her  turn  she 
will  learn  what  It  Is  to  be  spurned.  No 
one  who  has  ever  yet  Injured  nie  escaped. 
To  the  very  ends  of  the  earth  I  would 
follow  them,  like  a  bloodhound  following 
a  trail,  until  I  had  wreaked  my  ven- 
geance. You  wronged  me,  Insulted  me, 
and  you  see  the  result— a  fate,  so  dread- 
ful that  manhood  must  shudder  to  con- 
template It,  will  be  yours.  Her  turn 
comes  next;  for  now  that  you  stand  on 
the  threshold  of.  eternity,  I  swear  to  you. 
Fred  Stanley,  that  neither  heaven  nor 
earth  can  turn  me  from  my  purpose." 

"Monster!"  exclaimed  Fred.  In  a  voice 
that  sounded  low  and  unnatural  with 
Intense  horror,  "is  this  the  return  you 
make  for  all  Major  Perclval  has  done 
for  you?  For  myself  I  neither  have  nor 
shall  ask  for  nrercy  from  you,  fiend  that 
you  are— I  would  not  accept  It  If  offered; 
but  gratitude  to  the  old  man,  who  has 
been  more  than  a  father-to  you,  should- 
restrain  you  from  a  crime  that  even- 
those  bloodthirsty  savages  around  us 
would  shrink  from  committing.  Man! 
man!  If  there  Is  one  spark  of  human 
nature  In  your  fiendish  heart,  you  will 
not  bring  the  gray  hairs  of  that  old  man 
with   sorrow  to  the  grave." 

"Ha!   ha!  and  Fred  Stanley  can  pleadi 
for    the    roan    who   spurned    him    like   a 
dog!""  laughed  De  Lisle,  scornfully.    "If 
you  continue  In  this  strain,  I  shall  begin 
to    think    you    are     a     saint— have     you' 
canonized,  an^  l<?t  Edith  know  you  died 
in  the  odor  of  sanctity.    Tour  eloquence 
is  .quite  lost,   my  good  friend;   that  one. 
spark   of  human   nature,   you   see,    does 
not  exist  In  my  fietldlsn  heart.    Say,  my 
friend,   was  It  not  for  pretty  Edith  you 
were  pleading  that  .time,  instead  of  her 
doting  old  fool  of  a  father?    Spare  him! 
ha!  haf  why,  I  have m  long  score  against 
him,  too,  that  m\i8t  l>e,  wiped  out  hy  a> 


72 


TOE    HERMIT    OF    THE    efLlFFlS. 


few  <jf  hin  doubJoons,  When  he  refused 
to  compel  his  love-alck  daughter  to 
marry  me,  I  vowed  vengeance  against 
him  as  well  as  the  rest:  and,  as  I  don't 
Uke  to  be  In  people's  debt,  I  '  ha«-  take, 
care  to-  cancel  It  as  sf    n  as  '    ssl   le." 

"If  there  e'''"r  "^'bl^  -«'  a  >  imAn 
form.  It  Is  y>  :,  Raip  -  !>•  ^  <flel"  ex- 
claimed Fred,  with  a  16.  '•  vf  -red  and 
loathing;  "to  purstie  .hut  ;  ih  lii^r  ven- 
geance of  a  tiger,  an  old  nian  an  >lp- 
less  girl  for  some  fancied  wrong--;  Ad 
It  been  a  man— but  old  age  .and  help- 
lessness!   O  coward  1" 

De  Lisle's  face  grew  livid  with  rage, 
as  he  half  drew  a  pistol,  and 'advanced 
a   step   toward    him. 

Jj^red  observed  the  action;  ahd  his 
heart  bounded  with  the  hope  that  in  hi^ 
rage  De  Lisle  might  shoot  blni.  and  thus 
t)ave  him  from  a  more  terrible  fate. 

The  hope  was  In  vain,  however.  De 
Lisle  saw  the  quick  gleam  of.  his  eye, 
and  stepping  back,  he  replaced  the  pistol 
In  his  belt,  saying,  in  his  customary  sar- 
castic tone> 

*'No,  don't  flatter  yourseif  I'll  end  you 
sufFerings  so  speedily.  I  have  no  inten- 
tion of  depriving  m^y  good  friends  here 
of  the  pleasant  scene  they  anticipate. 
I  must  confess  it  is  rather  new  for  me 
to  allow  any  one  to  call  me  a  coward, 
and  let  him  escape  immediate  chastise- 
ment; but  circumstances  alter  cases,  you 
know.  I  percielve  Liohg  Knife  approach- 
ing, to  give  the  signal  for  the  fagots  to 
be  lighted,  and  our  red-skinned  friends 
■  are  growing  impatient.  So  farewell, 
\P'Eed  Stanley!  I  wish  you  a  pleasant 
Jpumey  tf  the  other  world»  and  a  cordial 
welcome  when  you  arrive  there!" 

He  bowed  with  most  ceremonious 
politeness,  and  stepped  aside,  as  the 
tfavage  chief  approached.  Waving  his 
hand  as  a  signal,  one  of  the  Indians 
approached,  and  thrust  a  lighted  brand 
among  the  combustibles. 

In  a  moment,  the  whole  pile  was  in  a 
blaze.  With  screeches  and  yells  that 
cati  be  likened  to  nothing  earthly,  the 
savages  joined  hands,  and  danced  madly 
4i'f>und  the  flames  that  rose  crackling, 
and  blazing,  and  roaring  as  though  ex> 
lilting  In  their  power. 

Fred  raised  his  eyes,  to  the  bright  sky 
abfivje  him  for  one  farewell  glance.  It 
was  such  a  glorious  day,  bright  and 
radiant  with  sunlight.  J^\]  nature  lodked 
lieaceful  and  lovely;  in  the  breast  of 
ni^n  alone  fierce,  dark  passions  -existed 
~theVi  alone  thirsted  -  for    each-    other's 

;  Higher^  and  higher  rbse  .  the  flannes. 
flercet*  and  fiercer  they  blazed,  faster 
and  fa ster  they  Spread,  until  he  stood 
4lone  A^lthin  a  red,  lurid  cll^cie  ot  fire: 
Thfe  heat  and"  smoke  w^r?  besihYiing  1%> 
grow  unbearable,  for  tMe  flameti  had  tiot 
»ea<^e4 >ln}<^ -Flxtaefrhtsiey^g Jon  tb«^^0ie^ 
vouring  monster,  Fred  silently  commit- 


ted his  soul  to  Heaven.    One  last  thon^  , 
of   Edith,   and   then   all   were   turned 
that  dread  unknown  to  whlc'.  he  was    o 
rapidly    approaching. 

The  crlesi  whoops.  y<.:h3  and  screeches 
fj  thC' ^av^gej  each  tihoment  Increased. 
rtS  they  danced  madly  without  the  ring 
of  Are.  He  scarcely  heeded  or  heard 
them,  until  suddenly  they  died  away. 
Every  voice  was  arrested — the  ma«1 
dance  ceased— and  all  stood  as  If  trans- 
fixed. Following  the  direction  toward 
which  every  eye  was  now  turned,  Frod 
beheld  a  sight  which  filled  him  with 
amazement. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

A    NARROW    ESCAPE.  ... 

"Oh!  ask  me  not  to  speak  thy  fate— 

Oh!  tempt  me  not  to  tell. 
What  doom  shall  make  thee  desolate, 

The  wrong  thou  tpayst  not  quell. 
Away!  away!  for  death  would  be  ■ 
E'en  as  a  mercy,  unto  thee." 

Tnn  cause  of  their  astonishment  was 
soon  explained.  There,  before  them,  ifte 
a  spirit,  In  his  flowing  robes  and  snowy 
hair,  stood  the  Hermit  of  the  Cllffsf 

With  a  grunt  expressive  of  surprise 
and  satisfaction,  not  unmlngled  with 
awe,  the  chief  advanced  to  meet  him. 
There  was  something  truly  Imposing  In 
the  majestic  appearance  of  the  old  man 
—his  fantastic  robes  fluttering  In  the 
air,  his  long  white  hair  and  beard  flow- 
ing over  his  shoulders.  There  was  an 
evident  reverence  and .  respect  for  this 
singular  old  man  In  the  hearts  of  the 
Indians,  who  looked  upon  him  ais  a  supe- 
rior being— something  more  akin  to  the 
Great   Spirit   than   to   his  fellow  men. 

Pointing  with  his  hand  toward  th^ 
prisoner,  the  hermit  addressed  the  chief 
in  his  own  language,  In  a  tone  more*of 
command  than  entreaty.  At  first,  Jlls 
words  were  listened  to  Impatiently— then 
angrily— and  finally  with  a  sort  of  ^wfe. 
As  the  hermit  went  of).  Increasing  in 
•  vehemence,  the  warrior  listened  In  auip- 
erstitlous  silence,  and  When  he  had  coi^- 
cluded,  he  bowed  his  head,  and,  foilotWisid 
by  the  hermit,  turned  toward  his  o^p 
people,  who  had  stood  watching  thejr^. 
durlne;  their  conference,  with  looks  .of 
P^lngled  respect  and  curiosity,  and.  began 
pddrewslng  them  In  their  own  langviagi^. 
As  a  matter  of  course,  Fred  undejrstocid 
not  a  word;  but.  from  the  savage  eyes 
that  were  every  now  and  theii  turiied 
toward  him.  he  Judged  he  was  the  sub- 
ject  of  their   convjersatlon,     .,     ,-,,      .j  i/^ 

Surprise,  first,  and  then  rage,  was  der 
pljjted  on  every  face,  while  knlvei*  and 
tomahawks  were  brandished,  with  fleroe 
veils.  But  thfe-ltoud.  harsh  voice  of  the 
^chlef.inaide  itself  ^earii  ahove^  «he  dtes 
'm.  t^m«R  of-:.ffn^«Rr  n.nd  oomtrtAnd.  friw 
warriors  gradually  relapsed  into  sullen, 


irned 

Was    ,, 

•creased. 
[the  rlnjf 
heard 
away. 
•®     mad 
I*  trans- 
toward 
'd,  Pred 
im    with 


THE    BBRMIT   OF   THE    CUFFS. 


(loKired  silence,  while  >very  eye  was  di- 
rected toward  the  aptlve,  and  glared 
with  eoncetitrated  passion  and  dfsap- 
pointnient. 

W'^'^n  the  ohltftaln  ceased,  the  hermit 
aduressed  the  enraged  crowd.  High  and 
clear,  like  the  sHvery  tones  of  a  trumpet, 
his  voice  rang  out,  soothing  the  waters 
of  passion-  which  the  words  of  their 
rhief  had  lashed  into  fury.  As  they  lis- 
tened their  noisy  demonstrations  of  rage 
gave  place  to  low,  deep  growls  and  sul- 
len mutterlngs,  while  they  glared  like 
wild  beasts  upon  Pred,  whose  position 
at  the  stake  was  now  almost  unbearable. 

As  he  folded  his  arms  across  his 
breast,,  and  ceased  speaking,  the  war- 
riors  fell    sullenly    back,    and    the    chief 


perfectly  ghantly  with  su  n.essed  pas- 
sion, 'but  think  not.  tho^  h  you  are 
triumphant  now,  you  have  conquered 
Ralph  De  Lisle.  I  swear  I  will  yet  have 
threefold  vengeance  on 'thee,  hoary  sor- 
cerer, and  on  this  doUbl(6-dyod  traitor 
beside  you!" 

With  a  fierce  exclamation  Pred  sprang 
forward,  and  De  T.lsie  would  doubtless 
have  b^en  felled  to  the  earth,  but  the 
hermit  laid  his  hand  oh  the  young  man's 
shoulder,  and  said,  aternly 

"I  ommand  you,  do  It  not.  'Ven- 
gei.  ce  mine,  salth  the  Lord,  and  I 
w«i!  re  /.'  Leave  this  flend  Incarnate 
tr    d   h       er   power.    His   race   will  soon 

'H   :   say  you   so,   good  father?"   said 


hloiHelf.  leaping  over  the  burning  circle, !  pg  v^gie,  Ironically.    "It  may  be  so,  but 
freed  the  bonds  of  Pred,   and   motioned  |  i    ^,j;i    ggnd    a    few    of   your    particular 
him  to  follow.    No  second  invitation  wad    Mends  before  me.  to  announce  my  corn- 
necessary  to  make  him  leave  his  plact. 
of  torture,    and   the    next    moment    he 
stood    beside   the   hernilt,    who   scarcely 
gave  him  a  single  glance,  as  he  turned 
again  and  addressed  the  chief. 

Puring  these  proceedings,  which  oc- 
cupied but  a  few  moments.  De  Lisle  had 
stood  watching  them,  like  one  who  can- 
not believe  what  he  sees.  Now  be  ad- 
vanced to  where  the  <^rlo  stood,  and  with 
a  face  perfectly  Jivld  with  rage  and 
disappointment,  he  turned  toward  the 
hermit,  and  angrily  exclaimed: 

"Sir,  what  means  this?  By  what 
devilish  art  have  you  bewitched  these 
savages  into  giving  up  their  prey?" 

"It  means,  sir,  that  your  evil  machina- 
tions are  again  defeated  by  me.    I  use 

no  devilish  arts;  as  you  well  know;  but 

there   is   a    power   higher   than    that   of 

man— a  power  that    can    defeat    man's 

most  cunning  scheme,   in  its  own   good 

time!"  answered  the  hermit,  with  grave 

dignity. 
"Death     and    fury!    Old    man,     cease 

your  prating!"  exclaimed  the  maddened 

Be   Lisle.    "Though    this   copper-colqred 

fool  'here  has  given  him  up.  by  heaven! 

I  will  disappoint  you  yet,  and  you  shall 

bear  from  hence  but  a  dead  carcass." 
'He   drew   a   pistol   as   he   spoke;    but, 

♦^re   he    cdtild    fulfil    his    threat,    it   was 

strttck  from  his  hand  by  the  chief,  who 

brandished    his    tomahawk    before    Wa 

eyes  with  a  fierce  yell,  and  would  doubt- 
less  have    prevented    his   ever  drawing: 

another,  but  for  the  intervention  of  the 

hermit.    Motioning   De   I.lsle   back  with 


a: 'nia|(estic  wave  of  the  hand,  he  salct;  before.-  All  the  events  since  his  capture 
^'"AWay, 'slrr  One  word  from.:  me.  And 'had  passed  so  raplttly  that  he  was.  al- 
you' and  your  band  of  cutthroats  ther^  most  tempted  to  believe  it  was  but.  a 
wilF,  In  five  minutes,  be  in  eternity!  troubled  dream.  A  glance,  however,  at 
Thou?"    you-  can  show  ho  mercy  to  oth-    bis    dusky    companion^    soon   convinced 


T  regret  leaving  such  pleasant  com- 
pany, but  'necessity  knows  no  law.'  I 
trust  soon  to  have  the  pleasure  of  meet- 
ing you   both  again.    Until  then!" 

He    bowed;    lifted    his    hat,    and    with 
the    same    oold,    sneering    smile    on    his 
lip,    turned    away.    Whispering    a    few 
words  in  the  ear  of  Paul,  Snowe,  whose 
eyes  were  fixed  as  If  fascinated   on  the 
hermit,   he   gave   his   men    the  order  to 
mount.    Ere    five    minutes   had   elapsed, 
they  were  In  their  saddles  and  away. 
\  "We  must  follow  their  example,"  sqld 
the    hermit '  to   Pred.    Then,    turning   to 
the  chief,  he  spoke  a  few  words  in  the 
Indian  language,  to  which  the  other  an- 
swered  by   a   nod;    and   making   a   sign 
that   they  should  follow  him,  he  turned 
and  forced  his  way  through  the  group  of 
dogged-looking  warriors,  whose   glances 
toward  Pred  were  anything  but  friendly. 
Fred's   horse   was   led   forth,    together 
with    the    hermit's.    The    chief    himself 
mounted,    and   gave   some   order  to   his 
followers,  upon  which   some  half  dozen 
sprang  into  their  saddles,  and  the  whple 
party  dashed  off. 

As  they  reached  the  summit  of  the 
hill,  Pred  paused  a  moment  to  look  back. 
Scarcely  eight  hours  had  elapsed  since 
he  had  stood  in  the  same  spot— but  how- 
different  were  his  feelings!  Then  he 
stood  on  the  threshold  of  death,  wt;l;h 
his  deadly  foe  on  one  side  and  blood- 
thirsty savages  on  the  other,  Now  l\e 
yfSis  safe  and  free,  or  at  least  on  the 
high  road  to  freedom,  saved  by  the  same 
mysterious  being  who  had  saved  his  life 


ers, 


rcy  shall  be  shown. ta  you.  Away 
.  al^— yotir   very  presence  Is   pbl- 

\>eyj;  ;nfK»t    -reverend  V^leaier    in 


hi.:  r   and -smHe.    though    his    face    wa»[inade  captive^  tlMlr.saya.ge.eijcatflt,l«ft 


him  of  the  unpleasant  reality,  and  qulek.- 
enlng  his  pace,  lie  descended  the  hill, 
ahd^  bade  a  Jastaiid-unr^uot^nt  ad(eu*to 
the  Indian  vtUaffe..  .  _ .  t  ..  .:  •  .  . ry 
f>Iear  the  fpoi  vwhtere  ^r§dxJiad >ij^eB 


F 


^' 


P.. 


n 


THE    HEHU1T   OF   THE    C*i-//(Vftf; 


rtiein,  and   the   preserver  and   preserved 
went' on   their  Journey   alone. 

For  a  time  they  rode  on  In  silence. 
Roth  were  too  deeply  absorbed  in 
thought  to  eonvOTse.  At  length  the  her- 
mit looked  up  and  said: 

"Yours  was  a  narrow  escape,  my 
friend.  You  were  Indeed  Hterallsf  shatch- 
ed  'a  brand  from  the  bdrning,*" 

"And  to  you  T  owe  it,"  replied  Fred, 
gratefully.  "You  seem  fated  to  place  me 
under  a  debt  of  gratitude.  I  will  not 
attempt  to  thank  you  for  saving  me 
from  a  doom  an  dreadful.  No-  words  of 
mine"— 

"I  want  no  thanks,"  Interrupted  the 
hermit.  "If  you  really  feel  grateful,  Ic'. 
your  gratitude  be  inward,  and  manifest 
Itself  by  actions  instead  of  words.  I 
know  the  world  too  well  to  place  much 
confidence   in    hollow    promises!" 

"How  did  you  discover  I  was  a  pris- 
oner?" inquired  Fred,  whose  curiosity 
could  no  longer  be  restrained. 

"Very  easily.  I  foresaw  danger  when 
VOX!   started,   and   followed   you." 

"Then  you  were  near  me  during  my 
journey,"  said  Fred.  "I  wonder  the 
savages    did    not    discover    you." 

"I  was  near  you  at  first,  but  was  un- 
able to  ride  forward  as  rapidly  as  your 
party.  However,  I  followed  your  trail, 
and  reached  the  village  a  few  hours 
after,  and  providentially  in  time  to  sav^ 
your  life." 

"It  is  most  wonderful  that  they  would 
surrender  a  captive  at  the  stak^"  said 
Fred.  "Your  power,  sir.  «eems^to  be 
omnipotent." 

"I  had  a  strong  claim  on  the  gratitude 
of  the  chief,"  said  the  hermit.  "Once, 
when  I  found  him  alone,  wounded  and 
almost  dying,  I  had  him  ^orne  to  my 
dwelling  and  nursed  him  until  he  recov- 
ered; Since  then  he  has  been  anxious  to 
redeem  the  promise  made  at  the  time,  to 
grant  me  the  first  favor  I  ever  asked  of 
him,  and  as  your  life  chanced  to  be  the 
first,  he  was  forced  to  grant  it.  Beside," 
he  added,  with  a  smile,  "his  supersti- 
tious followers  consider  me  something 
more  than  mortal,  and  labor  under  the 
delusion  that  in  offending  me  they  will 
draw  upon  themselves  the  wrath  of  the 
Great  Spirit." 

"Your  power  extends  ovef  more  than 
superstitious  savages,"  said  Fred.  "My 
father,  stern  and  haughty  as  he  is,  quails 
before  you,  as  hft  has  never  done  before 
any  other  living  man.  Would  I  knew 
the  secret  of  your -niysterious  power!" 

A  shadow  passed  rOver  tl^e  face  of  thfe 
hermit,  and  tvhen  he  spoke  again  his 
voice  wa»  unusually  low  and  solemn. 

"Some  day,  ere  long,  perhaps,  you  will 
learn  all.  Until  that  tjme  rest  in  peace, 
atiel  believe  this  mystery  is  all  for  the 
best.  I  go  now  to  my  home  on  the  cUflts, 
but  somettitng  ,tie1l9  tn^  that  we  shall 
soon  moet>ag«itn."  >";' 


"Well,  let  it  be  for  joy  .or  for  sorrow, 
the  meeting  will  be  welcome,''  replied 
Fred;  "but  why  should  you  reside  iri 
that  lonely  spot— why  not  seek  a  hoinu 
with  your  friends?"  , 

"Friends?"  repeated  the  hermlt^v  r' 
most  bitterly,  "who  in  this  selflsh  world 
deserve  that  sacred  name?  No,  I  havt- 
done  with  trusting  the  world;  my  expe- 
rience has  taught  me  how  much  reliance 
there  Is  to  he  placed  in  it.  I  would  be 
alone  with  natuee..  Watching  th»' 
mighty,  ever-moaning,  sea,  listening  to 
the  wild  shrieks  of  the  wind  or  gazing 
upon  the  blue  lightning,  I  am  happy. 
I  never  wish  to  mingle  with  my  fellpw- 
men  more." 

"Strange,  eccentric  .  being!"  thought 
Fred,  as  he  gaaed  on  the  pale  face  of 
his  companion,  now  lit  up .  by  epthufU.- 
asm.  "What  strange  vicissitudes  he 
must  have  passed  through!" 

"What  do  you  think  now  of  my  predic- 
tion?" said  the  hermit,  quietly,  after  a 
few  moments'  pause. 

"Think?"  replied  Fred,  "why,  that  your 
prophecy  has  in  a  most  unpleasahtly 
short  time  been  fulfilled,  and  I  must 
apologize  for  ever  presuming  to.  doubt 
its  truth." 

"I  fear  still  grefiter  dangers  are  In 
Htore  for  you,"  said  the  hermit,  gloom- 
ily. 

"From  what  quarter  now?"  inquired 
Fred. 

"From  your  mortal  enemy,  De  Lisle. 
There  was  something  perfectly  fiendish 
in  his  look  as  he  left  us,  and  It  needs  no 
soothsayer  to  tell  he  Is  even  now  plot- 
ting against  you." 

"Well,  it  seems  to  be  a  drawn  battle," 
said  Fred,  with  a  half  smile;  "he  plot- 
ting and  you  counterplotting.  As  for 
me,  I  seem  like  a  rudderless  craft  in  the 
stream  of  life,  drifting  whichever  way 
the  current  sets.  It  is  useless  striving 
to  guard  against  dangers  when  we  can- 
not foresee  in  what  shape  they  ttiay 
come.  So,  my  dear  sir,  I  shall  preserve' 
the  even  tenor  of  my  way,  and  place  my 
trust' in  Providence  and  you!" 

"Youth  is  always  hopeful  and'  blitidly 
trusting,"  said  the  hermit:  "but  Heavetfl 
forbid  my  presentiments  should  pihdVe 
true,  for  there  niay  be  dahgbrs  Wors^' 
than  death.  Disgrace  to  you  would  t>e  k 
thousandfold  worse." 

"Disgrace!"  exclaimed  Fred,-  almost' 
furiously,  while  his  face  flushed;  "who 
dares  couple  nty  name  with  dlssrraGe?" 

"De  Lisle  will  endeavor  to  db  so,  rest 
assured,"  said  the  hermit;  "there— there 
is  no  need  of  looking  so  fierce  about  it. 
Do  you  imagine  there  Is  anything-  he  can 
do  to  injure  you  In  the  opinion  of  the 
world,  more  especially  -  in  that  of  the 
Percivals,  that  he  will  not  da?  And, 
speaking  of  the  Percivals,  I  presume 
that  is  your  present  destinati*6n?" 

''No»"  said  Fred/  "I  go  there  tlo. more. 


THB    HBRMIT  OF   TUB   OUFF8. 


Wowi*  tp  heftven  I  h4*  nevet  gon* 
ttietel"         '  .»  .   • 

"It  'would  liave  ireeii  better  for  all  par- 
Wen,"  said  the  hermft;  "but  the  past  can 
never  be  recalled,  and  you  can  only  en- 
deavor toatone  for  It  by  absenting;  ypur- 
Helf  for  the  future.  Edith's  love  for  you 
has  remained  firm  throughout,  and  will 
tq  the  end— for  her  you  need  have  n<* 
fear.  The  war  will  soon  be  over,  and 
there  can  be  little  doubt  which  side  will 
be  victorious.  Major  Perclval's  views 
may  change  in  time,  and  his  fair  daugh- 
ter may  yet  be  your  bride.  Who  can 
tell  what  the  future  may  bring  forth?" 

"Who,  Indeed?"  thought  Fred,  "though 
I  fancy  that  prediction  is  altogether  too 
goqd  to  prove  true." 

"And  now  farewell!"  said  the  hermit, 
when  they  emerged  from  the  forest  road. 
"I  go  to  my  wild  home  among  the  cliffs, 
while  you  go  to  follow  the  pa'th  of  glory. 
It  may  be,  when  we  meet  again,  many 
things  now  hidden  in  darkness  will  be 
brought  to  light.  When  in  danger,  re- 
member you  have  a  friend  in  the  Her- 
mit of  the  Cliffs." 

He  turned  In  a  direction  opposite  to 
that  taken  by  Fred,  and  was  soon  out  of 
Bisht. 

CHAPTER     XXIV. 

THE   UAflT   RKBOLVE. 

"There  was  a  laughing  devil  in  his  sneer. 
That    raised    emotions    both    of    rage    arid 

And  where  his  frown  of  hatred  dark':*  felL 
Hope,    withering,    fled— and    Mercy    sigheCr 
.  farewell." 

—The  Corsair. 

Months  passed  away.  Hoary  winter 
had  shrunk  back  before  bright,  smiling 
spring,  and  the  gblden  summer  days 
were  approaching  again.  Many  exeltlhg 
events  had  taken  place  since  the  cir- 
cumstance recorded  'In  the  la»t  chapter, 
for  the  war  was  over,  and  America  was 
free. 

it  was  a  dark,  sultry  night  in  June. 
In  the  back  parlor  of  an  unpretending 
looking  inn  sat  two  men  conversing. 
They  were  our  old  acquaintances,  Ralph 
Efe' Lisle  .and  his  amiable  friend,  Paill 
Snowe. 

''Well,  what  Is  this  wonderful  plot  you 
have  In  your  wise  head  now,  De  Lisle?" 
inquired  the  man   Paul. 

"A  plot  that,  like  some  great  medicines, 
must  either  kill  or  cure!"  answered  D« 
Lisle;  "one  that  noakes  Edith  Percival 
mine  beyond  hope  of  redemption." 

"I  never  knew  one  of  your  plans  yet 
that  you  were  not  equally  sure  of.  Take 
care  this  does  not  prove  a  wlU-o'^the- 
wiept  like  the  rest,"  said  jthe  other,  with 
a  sneer.  •^' 

-  "No,  Uy  heaven!"  exclaimed  E^  Lfaile,  . 
setting    his    teeth    fiercely;    "this    night 


Edith  Percival  shall  be^  either  my  bride 
or  that  of  death;  this  night  the  crisis  of 
her  fate  and  mine  has  come." 

"nah!  bah!  all  foolery-^all  child's 
play!"  said  Paul  Rnowe,  In  his  bitler, 
Jibing  tone.  "You  lay  wonderful  plans, 
and  see  them  slip  through  your  Angers 
when  they  are  In  your  iJower.  This  girl 
who  has  made  sueh  a  fool  of  you  was 
for  a  week  under  the  same  roof  with 
you;  her  lover  and  your  mortal  foe  was 
likewise  within  arm's  length  of  you. 
Well,  you  let  both  go— let  them  give  you 
the  slip  and  laugh  at  you  and  your  plans 
in  safety." 

"For  that  I  may  thank  your  dainty 
(lauRhte><  and  that  villainous  young 
scoundrel,  Joe  Smith,"  said  De  Lisle,  an- 
grily. "I  should  have  liked  to  have 
twisted  her  treacherous  neck  for  her  on 
my  return,  and  would  have  done  so  but 
for  you." 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it."  said  Paul,  de- 
liberately fllHng  a  glass  of  brandy;  "but 
you  well  know  you.  are  too  completely  in 
my  power  to  play  any  of  your  tricks  off 
on  me.  What  would  you  do  If  I  took  a 
fancy  to  split  some  day  and  let  all  out?" 

"If  you  would!"  exclaimed  De  Lisle, 
his  face  grow»ng  absplutely  livid  with 
rage  as  he  drew  a  pistol,  "I  would"— 

"What?"  said  Paul  Snowe.  with  his 
cold,  deriding  smile,  as  his  leader  paused. 

"Shoot  you  like  a  dog!"  hissed  De 
Lisle  through  his  clenched  teeth. 

"Two  could  play  at  that  game,  my 
worthy  captain,"  said  the  man,  careless- 
ly, touching  a  long  knife  he.  wore,  "If 
I  took  a  fancy  for  peaching,  there  would 
be  a  slight  obstacle  in  the  way  Qf  your 
shooting  me— something  like  this."  And 
Paul  made  a  peculiar  motion  under  htti 
left  ear.  Indicative  of  hanging. 

"Villain!"  said  De  Lisle,  "there  was  a 
time  when  you  would  n«t  daxe  to  be  thus 
insolent.  But  boast  away;  I  fear  you 
not;  you  are  too  careful  of  your  own 
precious  Jugular  to  risk  it  by  such  an 
experiment.  I  fancy  when  Ralph  De 
Lisle  swings,  Paul  Snowe  will  keep  him 
company." 

"Perhaps  so.  Well,  it's  a  comfort  to 
think  the  world  will  wag  Just  as  mer- 
rily when  we  are  gon<  There  will  be 
few  tears  shed  over  our  grave — eh,  cap- 
tain?" 

"You  forget  your  affectionate  daugh- 
ter," said  De  Lisle,  sneerlngly. 

"Oh,  Elva?  She  will  be  better  without 
me;  but  for  her  sake  I  will  avoid  Jack 
Ketch  as  long  as  possible.  But  to  change 
the  subject,  which  la  getting,  rather  per- 
sonal, when  you  talk  of  hanging,  hovy^ 
do  you  propose  to  abduct  Miss  Perci- 
val?" * 

"I    shall    not    Abduct    her,    my    good 
friend;   she  must  come  with   me  of  her 
own  free  wIH  or  not  at  all." 
.    "Faith,  you  are  gettlijg  jirig^tiy- par- 
ticular.    I've  seen   the   time  when  yon 


70 


THK    HERMIT   OF    THE   CLIFFB. 


Ifl 


I 


I'l 


\m 


weren't  so  choice,  and  wan  glad  to  get 
her.  by  hook  or  by  crook." 

"Yea,  hut  that  time  ban  pasHed.  and 
my  proud  Lady  Edith  nhall  eue  to  me 
now  aa  I  have  heretofore  done  to  her. 
Love  and  hatred,  worthy  Tnul,  are  nearly 
akin.  Next  to  mysolf,  I  loved  that  girl 
better  than  anything  on  earth.  Well,  Bhe 
jilted  me  for  this  dashing  rebel— or  patri- 
ot. I  suppose  I  should  say  now.  since  they 
have  triumphed  —  and  I  hate  her  now 
with  an  Intensity  far  surpassing  any 
lovo  I  ever  felt  for  her.  Now  I  would, 
as  far  as  love  is  concerned,  a  thousand 
times  rather  marry  your  pretty  daugh- 
ter Elva  than  her." 

••  "Much  obliged  for  the  honor."  said 
Paul,  dryly.  "But.  In  the  name  of  my 
'pretty  daughter  Elva,'  I  beg  respectfully 
to  decline  the  Illustrious  alliance." 

De  Lisle  smiled  scornfully,  but,  with- 
out noticing  his  words,  went  on: 

"Affection,  therefore,  you  see,  has 
nothing  to  do  with  my  wish  to  make 
Edith  Perclval  my  wife.  Hatred  and 
revenge  are  my  sole  motives.  She 
loathes  the  very  sight  of  me,  I  know, 
and  there  Is  no  other  means  by  which 
I  can  punish  he%.  for  It  so  well.  Her 
lover,  too— Master  Fred— will  feel  It 
more. than  anything  else  I  could  possi- 
bly do.  Therefore,  these  are  my  reasons 
for  wishing  tc  n^.sfv  pretty  Edith." 

"Well,  I  didn't  ask  you  for  your  rea- 
sons," said  Snowe;  "I  don't  take  so 
much  interest  In  either  of  you.  You 
say  you  are  going  to  make  her  marry 
you.    Now,  how  are  you  going  to  do  it?" 

"Listen!"  said  his  friend,  with  a  sar- 
donic smile.  "I  have  learned  that  my 
quondam  lady-love  has  taken  a  fancy  to 
a  sick  glr)  in  the  neighborhood,  and  visits 
her  veryoften.  A  brother  of  the  Invalid 
—a  child  of  nine— goes  for  her  when 
wanted.  This  little  fellow  I  told  to  meet 
me  to-night  at  a  place  I  appointed,  but 
I  have  not  yet  told  him  what  I  want. 
I  think  I  can  manage  to  Induce  him  to 
bring  Edith  out.  I  will  meet  her— urge 
her  to  fly  with  me— and  if  she  persists 
in  refusing"— 

"Well,  and  If  she  does?"  said  the  man 
Paul,  looking  up. 

"I  win  stab  her  to  the  heart!"  ex- 
claimed De  Lisle,  In  a  fierce,  hoarse 
whisper,  while  his  eyes  glittered  with  a 
demoniacal  light. 

Paul  Snowe  drew  back  involuntarily  at 
the  strange,  wild  expression  on  his  com- 
panion's face.  There  wag  a  look  almost 
of  horror  on  his  face  as  he  exclaimed: 

"No,  no!  devil  as  you  are,  you  would 
not  murder  an  unoffending  girl!" 

"Ha,  ha!     Paul  Snowe  turned  preach- 
er!"   mocked   De   Lisle.     "Wheii    was   it 
your  conscience  became  so  tender,  hon- 
est Paul  ?-^iMnGe^ the  night  your  Spanish* 
knife  let  the  moonlight  through  Dandy 


Dan's  backbone  for  cftUtng  you  a  liar— 
eh?" 

"Perdition  selie  you!  Hunh!"  ex- 
claimed Paul,  growing  pale.  "I  meant 
to  dissuade  you  from  it,  because  It  will 
be  discovered,  and  then  we  shall  swing, 
you  know." 

"Well,  It's  swing  with  us,  anyway, 
sooner  or  later.  One  may  aa  well  be 
hung  for  a  sheep  aa  a  lamb,  Paul."  aald 
De  Lisle,  recklessly. 

"To  be  sure."  said  Paul,  turning  un- 
easily In  his  chair  and  draining  another 
glass  of  brandy.  "But  where'a  the  use 
of  being  so  desperate?  You  ougnt  to 
take  precautions." 

"So  I  have,  my  honest  friend.  If  it 
does  come  to  the  worst,  I  think  I  hav«' 
arranged  matters  In  such  a  manner  that 
all  the  blame  will  fall  -on  the  shoulders 
of  that  meddler,  Fred  Stanley." 
"Ha!  have  you?  In  what  way?" 
"This  dagger  belongs  to  him;  I  saw  hlH 
name  engraved  on  it,  and,  thinking  It 
might  be  useful  to  me,  I  took  charge  of 
it.  About  three  hours  ago  I  saw  him 
parting  with  Major  Perclval.  and*  the 
major  foaming  and  scolding  like  jin  en- 
raped  washerwoman.  Shortly  after  he 
mounted  his  horse  and  left  the  village  in 
hot  haste.  Now,  if  the  major's  daughter 
is  found  mur  —  well,  you  know  what  I 
mean— In  the  morning,  with  his  dagger 
somewhere  near,  that  circumstance,  tak- 
en In  connection  with  his  Quarrel  with 
the  major  and  subsequent  flight  from  the 
llage,  will,  without  doubt,  place  the 
orthy  youth's  neck  in  a  tight  place 
and  convince  the  world  generally,  and 
his  admirers  particularly,  that,  after  all 
his  escapes,  he  was  born  to  be  hanged 
at  last." 

There  was  a  wicked  and  most  sinister 
smile  on  De  Lisle's  lips,  a  glittering  light 
In  his  evil  eyes,  that  involuntarily  made 
Paul  Snowe.  hardened  in  crime  though 
he  was,  draw  back  In  horror.  There  was 
something  so  fearfully  cold-blooded  in 
the  manner  In  which  he  unfolded  his  dla- 
bolical  plot  that  his  listener  placed  his 
hand  on  the  hilt  of  his  knife  and  looked 
for  a  moment  Into  De  Lisle's  gleaming 
eyes  In  alienee. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  de- 
manded De  Lisle,  at  length. 

"Think!"  repeated  Paul:  "why,  that  If 
there  ever  was  a  fiend  Incarnate  on 
earth,  you  are  one!" 

•!Ha!  ha!  Well,  no  matter  for  that. 
Do  you  not  think  my  plan  a  safe  one?" 

"r  neither  know  nor  care,  Ralph  De 
Lisle.  If  you  are  safe  yourself,  all  right. 
If  you  are  not  safe,  all  right  likewise. 
i  will  have  nothing  to  do  with  your  dia- 
bolical plans:  therefore,  as  I  .saidl^ before, 
I  neither  know  rior  care  wl^ether  you  are 
safe  or- not."  ,^    ' 

"Insolent  villain!"  exclaimed  J5e  Lisle, 


TBB    UBHMIT    OF    THE    CUFFS. 


I 


de- 


fiprlnalnff  fltrcely  to  hiR  f«et:  "ymi  shall 
rep«nt  this!" 

"Hands  off.  T)e  Lisle!"  said  Paul,  bold- 
ly confrontini^  him.  "I  am  not  afraid  of 
you.  Commit  your  own  murders  for  the 
future:  I  will  have  no  more  to  do  with 
such   a   cold-blooded    assassin." 

For  a  moment  De  Lisle  glared  upon 
him  like  a  wild  beast:  hut  the  bold  eye 
of  Paul  flnowe  quailed  not  beneath  his 
burning  gaxe.  Seeing  how  little  he  was 
feared,  D^  Lisle  rhanged  his  tactios, 
and,  throwing  himself  back  In  his  chair, 
he  said,  with  a  forred  laugh: 

"Well,  we  won't  quarrel,  Paul:  we  have 
been  friends  too  long  to  part  In  anger, 
and  espeeially  about  surh  a   trifle." 

"I  never  was  a  friend  of  yours,  Cap- 
tain De  Lisle,"  said  Paul,  doggedly. 
"Villainy  bound  us  together;  but  the 
link  of  crime  Is  very  different  from  that 
of  friendship." 

"Well,  have  it  your  own  way,"  said 
De  Lisle,  with  affected  carelessness,  as 
he  replaced  the  daprner  within  his  vest. 
"And  now  I  see  by  yonder  timepiece  that 
'tis  time  I  was  keeping  my  appointment 
with  little  nine-year-old.  You'll  wait  for 
me  here,  of  course?" 

"No,  I  won't!"  was  the  short,  sharp 
and  decisive  reply.  "I  have  waited  for 
you  too  long,  as  I  may  yet  And  out  to 
my  cost.  You  and  I  part  to-night,  De 
Lisle,"  continued  Paul  Snow,  rising,  and 
taking  his  hat.  "I -intend  to  leave  the 
country  as  soon  as  possible;  and,  if  you 
wish  to  avoid  the  hangman,  you  will  fol- 
low my  example,  and  let  Edith  Perclval 
alone.  Don't  turn  so  white  about  the 
gills,  man:  I  won't  peach.  But  you 
kno^'  .  however  long  the  fox  may  run, 
he'll  he  caught  by  the  tall  at  last.  So, 
as  w«  are  parting,  I'll  take  a  last  glass 
with  you.  In  memory  of  old  times.  Here's 
wlshlnff  you  long  life  and  an  escape  from 
the  halter." 

"I'll  drink  no  such  toast!"  said  De 
Lisle,  biting  his  lips  to  keep  down  his  In- 
creasing anger.  "Here's  to  the  bright 
eyea  of  your  daughter  Elva." 

"So  be  It,  then."  said  Paul,  refilling  his 
glass;  "and  on  those  sa4|[|  bright  eyes 
you  will  nevwTook  again,  ifiy  susceptible 
friend.  Oood-nlght,  De  Lisle,  and  luck 
be  with  you." 

He  turned  and  quitted  the  room.  De 
Lisle  looked  after  him  with  an  evil  smile 
as  he  muttered: 

"Say  you  so,  worthy  Paul?  That  re- 
mains to  be  seen.  And  now  for  the 
drama  of  the"evening.  Will  It  be  a  trag- 
edy or  a  farce?  Well,  ere  midnffeht  I 
shall  know." 

He  drank  deeply,  as  If  to  nerve  him- 
self for  what  was  approaching:  and  then, 
muffling  himself  in  his  cloak  and  draw- 
ing hta  hat  down  over  his  brow,  he  quit- 
ted the  obscure  tnn.  and  disappeared  In 
the  gloomy  night. 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

THR    OLD    HOI'SR    O.N    THK    RLUPr. 

•A   wlllliiK  menneriKer— <'rltn»*'K  midy  tool— 
A    thiim  of   Menh   and   blood    that    may    b« 

lunight 
And  Hold  like  vllent  mcnhnndinc." 

TiiK  sky  was  dark  and  overcast  with 
storm-threatenlng  clouds.  The  moon 
struggled  feebly  on  her  way,  shedding  a 
sickly,  watery  light  over  the  earth.  The 
wind  had  been  rising  all  the  evening,  and 
now  blew  chill  and  raw.  accompanied  by 
a  thin,  ilglg  drtszle.  Lights  were  twin- 
kling here  and  there  through  the  village 
as  De  Lisle  passed  along;  but  there  were 
few  abroad— a  circumstance  he  rejoiced 
at.  lest  he  should  be  discovered.  ThoSe 
who  did  meet  him  as  they  hurried  home- 
ward, paused  to  stare  In  surprise  at  the 
tall,  dark,  muffled  figure  which  strode 
along  as  though  gifted  with  the  famous 
seven-league  boots. 

Faster  and  faster  he  walked;  for,  half 
mad  with  excitement,  he  strove  to  lose 
memory  In  the  rapid  motion.  His  head. 
hot  and  throbbing,  felt  as  though  it 
would  burst.  He  paused  for  a  moment, 
and,  leaning  against  a  tree,  took  oft  his 
hat  that  the  cool  breeze  might  relieve 
him.  -  His  long,  dark  locks  streamed 
wildly  in  the  wind  behind  him,  and  his 
heart  throbbed  so  loudly  that  every  pul- 
sation sounded  like  the  stroke  of  a 
sledgehammer.  His  hands  were  red  with 
blood— his  soul  dark  with  crime;  but 
never  had  he  meditated  so  dreadful  a 
murder  as  weighed  on  his  heart  to-night. 
The  shadows,  as  they  flitted  by.  looked  to 
his  heated  Imagination  like  specters  ris- 
ing from  the  grave  to  warn  him  back. 

The  village  clock  struck  nine.  He 
started  at  the  sound,  and,  unable  to  re- 
main longer  Inactive,  started  on  more 
rapidly  than  before.  As  he  walked,  he 
suddenly  lifted  his  head,  and  beheld  the 
churchyard  before  him.  To  reach  the 
place  where  thi  boy  was  to  meet  him,  he 
must  par*  H  The  tombstones  gleamed 
white  arJ  ijiiastlT/  in  the  dim  light.  How 
they  S"  '  med  to  glare  i'.)>on  him  with  their 
cold,  tn  e  ?yes! 

He  >haddered,  ar '  hurried  on  faster 
than  V  .ei.  Hln  rrroid  walking  soon 
brought  him  fo  the  p/ace  of  rendezvous; 
it  wa-t  an  old,  deserted  house  on  the  black 
hillside  known  as  the  Barn  on  the  Bluff. 
It  had  »;eien  untenanted  for  many  a  day, 
and  was  only  used  as  a  shelter  for  sheep 
on  stormy  nights.  No  other  house  was 
near  it  on  any  side.  It  sltocd  alone, 
bleak,  grim,  and  dismal— a  fit  place  for 
the  dark  scene  It  was  to  witness  that 
night. 

A  boy  of  about  nl  ie— a  vacant-eyed, 
stupid-faced  urchin— stood  shivering  be- 
side one  of  the  broken  windows,  and  en- 
deavoring to  peer  out  Into  the  gloom. 
Hearing  approaching  footsteps,  he  start- 
ed from  his  corner,  and  met  De  Lisle  in 
the  doorway. 


n 


THE   HE^RMIT   OF   THE   CLIFFS. 


4f',n 


i 


iJM 


"If  yoM'd  stayed  muc^i  longer,  I 
wouldn't  waited,"  said  the  boy,  rather 
fmllenly.  "Why  didn't  you  come  Hooner?' 

"It's  time  enough."  said  De  Loale..  "Dp 
you  think  you'll  find  Miss  Perclval  at 
home  now?" 

"Be'  sure  I  will,"  replied  the  boy. 
"They  have  a  party  to-night,  and  she'll 
be  sure  to  be  there." 

"A  party!"  muttered  De  Lisle;  "tnat 
deff'iits  all  my  plans.  Why  didn't  you 
tell  me  this  before,  you  young  rascal? 
She  won't  come  with  you  IJ,  they  have 
a  party." 

"Yes,  she  will,  too,"  said  the  boy. 
"She  did  it  afore,  and  she  told  our 
Mai*riet  any  tlms  she  wanted  her  she'd 
come,  and  no  bother  about  it." 

"Well,  will  you  go  and  tell  her  yoor 
sister  Is  dying,  or  any  other  He  that 
you  think  will  be  likely  to  bring  her 
here?  3ee.  I  will  give  you-  this  Koicl 
guinea  now,  and  a  dozen  when  you  come 
back." 

"Will  you.  though?"  exclaimed  the 
boy r^  his  eyes  sparkling  with  delight. 

"Yes,  if  you  bring  her  here  alone. 
Mind,  don't  tell  her  there  is  a  man 
waiting  for  her  here.  You  have  to  pass 
this  bluff  on  you''  way  home,  have  you 
not?" 

"Yes;  but  there's  another  shorter 
way." 

"Oh!  well,  don't  mind  the  shorter 
way.  Briftg  her  here—dlone,  mind— 
alone.  Do  you  think  there  is  any  danger 
of  her  being  accompanied  by  any  one?" 

"No,  I  guess  not;  she  often  came 
with  me  alone  to  see  Harriet  as  la'.e 
as  this." 

"Oh!  very  well,  then;  go  now  and  don't 
be  long.  Romeniber,  if  you  bring  M'ss 
Perclval  here  alone,  you  shall  h&ve  my 
purse    upon    your    return." 

"All  right,"  an«wered  the  boy,  touch- 
ing his  cap,  as  he  quitted  the  old  house 
and    bounded   down    the    bill. 

Folding  his  arms  across  his  b^c.^"**. 
and  drawing  his  cloak  closer  around 
him,  De  Lisle  leaned  against  the  broken 
doorway,  and  strove  to  stih  the  wild 
tumult  within,  and  think.  Think!  how 
could  he  think  with  heait  and  brain 
burning  anr»  throbbing  with  such  a 
blinding  Intenrsity  of  pain?  His  face  was 
deailly  pale,  his  eyes  inflamed  and 
blooOshot.  his  lips  dry  and  parched.  A 
horror,  nameless  and  hitherto  unfelt, 
was  sveallng  over  him.  It  was  as  if 
some  dread  calamity  were  hovering 
over  his  own  head. 

All  was  profoundly  still.  The  ligbts  in 
the  village  below  were  going  cat  one  by 
one,  as  tl?ie  simple  villagers  retired  to 
rest,  Ifttle  dreaming  of  him  who  leaned 
silent  and  alone  in  the  old  house  with 
such  a  tumultuously  throbbing  heart. 
The  wind  wailed  dirge-like  through  the 
troes,  and  at  intervals  the  harsh,  omi- 
nous croak  of  a   raven—that   evil   bird 


r,t  night— as  It  flew  past,  would  break 
upon  his  ear,  startling  him  like  a  gal- 
vanic shock. 

"Would  this  night  were  over!"  he  mut- 
tered, taking  off  hlfl  hat,  anj  shaking 
back  his  black  locLs.  "Am  I  turning 
coward  that  I  quake  thus  at  every 
sound?  Ralph  Ds  Lisle,  courage,  man! 
'Tis  but  a  girl  more  or  less  in  the  world, 
anfl  there  is  no  one  to  know  It." 

No  one  to  know  It!  A  stray  gleam 
of  moonlight,  bi^eaking  through  the 
clouds,  fell  on  his  face  white  as  that  of 
thf  dead,  but  lighted  up  with  suoh 
intensely  burning  eyes.  No  onfe  to  know 
it!  A  still  small  voice  deep  down  In 
his  heart  and  silent  for  many  a  year, 
raiig  out  with  one  word,  clear  and  dis- 
tinct. A  host  of  memories — memories  of 
his  almc^t  forgotten  childhood— rushed 
back  l('  his  mind.  Again  he  felt  his 
mother's  jjentle  hand  straying  amid  his 
hair;  h«r  soft  voice  whispering,  as  she 
passed  fiom  earth r  "Love  and  fear  God, 
my  son,  and  meet  me  in  Heaven."  How 
reproachfully  her  loving  eyes  rose  before 
him  now.  Again,  in  fancy,  he  wander- 
ed hand  in  hand  with  Edith,  as  he  had 
often-  done  in  childhood,  or  lay  on  the 
grass  at  her  feet,  while  she  sang  for 
hini  the  sweet  "Evening  Hymn,"  and 
he  thought  the  sky  not  half  so  bl:ie  and 
luautifu'  as  her  eyes.  Words  "he  had 
h.iig  forgotten  came  again  to  his  mind; 
the  simple,  earnest  prayer  he  had  said 
in  his  boyhood  night  and  morning,  like 
some  wandering  strain  of  music  rose  to 
his  lips.  It  was  the  last  struggle  be- 
tween good  and  evil  lin  his  heart.  His 
better  nature  seemed  for  a  moment  tfi 
prevail.  He  turned  to  quit  the  old  house 
when  the  Image  of  Fred  Stanley  arose 
before  him.  The  struggle  was  past — ^he 
stayed.  His  good  angel  covered  her 
bright  face  an(!  wept,  and  Ralph  De 
Lisle   was   forever — lost! 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
CAUGHT  IN  THK  SNARE. 

"  'Tls  done!  IjKlw  It  In  my  dreams- 
No  more  'a^hR  hope  the  future  beamsl 

My  days  of  happiness  are  few; 
Chilled  by  Mlsfortvme's  wintry  blast. 
My  dawn  of  life  is  oVercast; 
Lov3,  hope,  and  joy  alike  adieu: 
Wouid  I  could  add  remembrance,  too!" 

—Byron. 

Prrcivai.  Hall  was  all  aglow  with  light 
and  radiance,  music  and  mirth,  feasting 
and  fest'.vity.  The  loft3r*room8  were 
c^owdifed  with  the  numerous  friends  of 
the  family  for  the  last  time,  for  Major 
Perclval  had  announced  his  intention  of 
departing  for  England  In  a  few  weeks, 
to   reside   there   permanently. 

Weary  with  dancing,  Edith  had  quitted 
the  balHroom  and  sought  refuge  In  the 
conservatory.    The  gay  sounds  6t  muuic 


THE   HERMIT   OP 'THE   CLIFFS. 


19 


break 
a  liSLi. 

B  mut- 
aklng 

irnine: 
every 
man! 

world. 

Kleam 
the 
hat  of 
suoh 
know 
pvn    In 


and  dancing  came  to  her  ear,   softened 
and    mellowed    by   the   distance. 

Seating  herself  In  a  shadowy  corner 
her  igrolden  hair  falling  like  a  glory 
around  her,  she  leaned  her  head  upon 
her  hard,  while  her  thoughts  wandered 
far  away.  She  felt  sad  and  out  of  spir- 
its, and  in  no  mood  to  Join  the  gay  rev- 
eleriS.  She  was  about  to  leave  her  home 
for  the  shores  of  "Merrie  England,"  to 
leave  many  whom  she  lov$d,  and  who 
loved  her,  behind  her.  Shp  thought  of 
Fred,  but  no  longer  v/ith  hope.  At  her 
father's  command  they  parted  forever. 
Unable  longer  to  resist  the  temptation, 
he  had  sought  the  village  and  they  had 
one  Interview.  The  major  discovered  it, 
and  a  few  hours  before,  they  had  parted 
after  an  exceedingly  stormy  Interview, 
and  iahe  had  been  sternly  forbidden  ever 
to  see  or  speak  to  him  again. 

Therefore  Edith  feet,  sad  and  silent, 
with  tears  ^slowly  fllling  her  deep-blue 
eyes,  and  falling  unheeded  on  her  white 
hands.  Tears  for  him,  tears  for  herself, 
and  a  weight  heavy  and  oppressive  on 
her   heart. 

The  entrance  of  a  servant  roused  her 
from  her  sad  reverie.  The'  girl  paused 
as  she  approached  her.  and  Eldlth  looked 
up  Inquiringly: 

"If  you  please,  miss,  little  Eddy  Dil- 
lon's out  here.  He  says  his  sister  Har- 
riet sent  him  with  a  message  for  you." 
"O  dear  little  Harriet!  I  hope  she  is 
not  worse  Where  is  he,  Betty?  I  must 
see  hivn  immediately,"  said  Edith,  for- 
getting her  own  sorrows  to  listen  to 
those   of    others. 

"Down  here  at  the  hall  door,  miss, ' 
said  Betty.  And  Edith  flew  past  "tfier 
apd  ran  down  to  the  hall  door,  where 
stood    little    Eddy,    cap    In    hand. 

"O  Eddy!  how  is  Harriet?"  exclaimed 
Edith,    breathlessly. 

"A  great  deal  better— I  mean  worse. 
Miss  Edith,"  said  Edd^ ;  "don't  expect 
she'll   live   till   to-morrow,   nohow." 

"Is  it  possible?  Poor  little  Harriet! 
O  Eddy!  why  didn't  you  come  for  me 
before?"   said   Edith. 

"Cause  I  was  busy,"  said  Eddy, 
scratching  Ms  head,  as  he  composedly 
uttered  the  He.  "But  she.  wants  to  see 
you  now,  11  you're  agreeable." 

"Certainly,  I'll  go.  Betty,  bring  me 
my  .  hood  and  mantle,"  said  Edith, 
promptly. 

VO  Miss  Edith!  I  wouldn't  go  to-night, 
if  r  Was  you.  It's  goinfe  to  rain  I'm 
afraid,  and  the  company"— 

"Betty.-ycu  mustn't  talk  so.  Do  you 
think  any  such  selfish  conJ-.ideration 
would  make  me  refuse  that  dear  child's 
dyir?  request?  Bring  me  my*  hood  and 
cloak   immediately." 

Betty  disappeared  to  obey  her;  and 
turning  to  Eddy,  Edith  began  inqui  hit' 
SQ  ei^rly  about  thttr-sudden  dangero>  ft 
turn  fti  hlB  Sister's  Illness  that  the  good 


youth,  not  having  a  stock  .»f  lies  .manu- 
factured for  the  occasion,  got  quite  be- 
wildered. Betty's  reappearance  with  the 
desired  articles  relieved  him  .  from  his 
dilemma,  as  she  threw  the  cloak  over 
Edith's  shoulders  and  tied  on  her  j^ood. 

"Hadn  t   you   better   let   me   or  5ne   of 
the   others   go   with    you?"    said    Betty. 
It  s    powerful    lonesome     going    along 
alone." 

_':Oh!  no,  thank  you;  I'll  do  very  well. 
Eddy  and  I  havp  often  gone  alone  6n 
the  same  errand,  to  see  poor  Harriet." 
"What  shall  I  say,  if  any  one  asks 
for  you.  miss?"  called  Betty  after  her. 

"You  may  tell  mamma  where  I  have 
gone;  and  if  any  oiie  else  asks  you, 
refer  them  to  her.  Come,  Eddy.  I  am  all 
ready. "_ 

They   went   down   the   steps    together, ' 
and  started  at  a  rapid  walk.    The  clouds 
were   slowly    breaking    awf^y,   and    the 
moon   rode  in   silvery  radiance   through 
the  star-studded  dome.    The  cool   night 
breeze  brought  a  bright  flush  to  Edith's 
pale  cheek,   and   a  clearer  light   to   her 
blue  eyes,  as  she  tripped  lightly  along, 
thinking   of    "dear   '.Ittle    Harriet."    and 
almost  envying  her  for  being  freed  from 
earth  so   soon.    Master   Eddy,   too,   was 
thinking— a  very  unusual  thing  for  him, 
by  the  way— and  which  never  occurred, 
save  on  an  unusual  occurrence  like  the 
present.    He    was    wondering   what    the 
tall,  dark  man  could  want  with  her,  and 
whether  he  had  acted  quite  right  in  de- 
ceiving her  as  he  had  done.    Unable  to 
solve  this  knotty  problem,  he.  placed  his 
hand  In  his  pocket  where  it  encountered 
and  closed  upoH  a  guinea,  which,  in  a 
wonderfully  short  space  of  time,  removed 
all  his  scruples,  Just  as  It  would  those 
of  an  older  person.    The  recollection  of 
the  twelve  he  was  to  get  on  his  return, 
clinched  the  argument,  and  Master  Eddy 
lifted  bis  head  and  walked  along  In  the 
proud  consciousness  of  having  discharg- 
ed his  duty  as  a  man  and  a  Chrlstlah 
should     Having  heanl  the  villagers  talk 
ov%>r    the    story    of     »Iiss    Edith's    rebel  • 
lover,  he  concluded  this  must  be  he  come 
to  hold  a  clandestine  interview  with  her. 
"Why  are  you  taking  this  .roundabout 
way?"   asked   Edith,   as   her   companion 
turned  in  the  (direction  of    he  bluff.  "The 
other  path  is  wuch  shorter." 

"Yes,  I  know  it;  but  the  other  road's 
muddy;  'taint  •  so  good  as  thlfi"  said 
Eddy,  rather  at  a  loss  for  a  suitable  lie. 
"This  ain't  much  longer,   either." 

"Oh,    very    well!"    said    Edith;    "only 
hurry,  I  am  so  anxious  to  qpe  Harriet." 
Both  walked  on  rapidly,  and  in  silence, 
until  they  reached  the  dark  bluff. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  s^sked  ^ith, 
as  Eddy  began  to  descend. 

"I  left  something  up  in  the  old  ba-^n, 
T  rplist  go  after.    Come  with  me;  I  dou't 
Ifke  to  go  alone." 
Unconscious   and    unsuspecting,    Edith 


'■S 


-y^^ 


80 


THE   BBttMtT  OF   THE  'CLIFFS. 


Ji  ' 


followfd  him  up  the  ste.ep  hUlsldc  The 
Tbrlgrhi  modnllsht  shone  full  upon  'tfte 
deserted,  barn,  and  showed  it  in  all  Its 
dreary  loneliness.  ;. 

■  "What  a  dismal  plaeeV  thought  Edith: 
"It  Iflteks  wilder  and  drearier  to-night 
than  I  e.ver  remember  to  have  seen  It 
befqr*.  How  ghastly  tljose  moldering 
wallsf  look.in   the   dold   moonlight!" 

Within  the  shadow  of  those  walls, 
how  little  did  she  dream  that  he  whom 
she  dreaded  most  on  earth  stood  watch- 
ing her.  Rapidly  she  followed  her  young 
guide,  whose  steps  wefe  quickened  by 
the  recollection  of  the  reward  promised 
on  hjis  return.  '... 

A  tall,  dark  figure,  muffled  In  a  cloak, 
stepped  from  within  the  shadow  of  the 
,  doorway, '  and  -approached  them.  Some- 
thing in  his  height  arid  air  reminded  her 
of  Pred,  an(i,  filled  with  the  idea  that 
he  had  again. sought  her  to  bid  a  final 
adiet|,  she  sprang  forward,  exclaiming 
breathlessly: 

"Fred!  Fred!  can  this  be  you?" 

He  raised  .his  hand.  and.  pointing  to 
the  lad,  made,  a  motion  ^or  her  to  be 
silent.  Then,  slipping  the  promised  re- 
ward into  his  hand,  he  whispered 
sternly  f 

"Go!" 

"O  .Pred!  this  is  very  rash!"  Said 
Edith,  as  the  l?»y  bounded  down  the 
hillside  and  disappeared.  "What  would 
papa  say,  if  he  knew  of  this?" 
:  "Hist!"  said:  De  Lisle,  disguising  his 
voice  in  a  hurried  whisper;  "come  in 
here!"  i        ,.  . 

He  drew  h«r  arm  i^dthin  his;  and, 
half-bewilderetl  hy  this  sudden  meeting, 
she  scarcely  realized  his  meaning  until 
she.  stood  with  him  in  the  old  deserted 
house.  H€  released  her  arm^  and  stood 
between  her  and  the  door,  his  hat  stiU 
hiding  his  fac<e.  so  taM,  so  still,  so  mo- 
tionless, that  he  looked  like  some  dark 
statiie.  •  4         ' 

"Pred,  is  this  you?"  said  Edith,  k  Wild 
thrljl  of  fear,  shooting  through  her 
heart  at  his  strange  silence.  The  long 
cloak  that  mulHec'  him  fell  off,  he  slowly 
raised  his  hat.' and  she  beheld  the  pale, 
fierce  face  fifnd"' Intensely,  burning  eyes  of 
her  dreaded  foe.  Ralph'  be  Lisle. 

I 


-.  v-  ■  « 


-;^^'  |.    CH^^PTER  XXt:n 


THE    CA'ASTUOPHE. 


"Murder, moat  foul— ns  in  the  best  it  is- 
But     this     most  foul,     strange,     and    un* 
fmitui^5ll."., 

■         ^'*'  '  — Shakesneare. 

STimNED,'  bewildered,  giddy,  the  wild 
shriek  of. ;morta.i  fear,  that  quivered  on 
the  lipg  5f  E^lth  dl«daway.  as. she  met 
these  fierce.  daFk.ey*s  ahe  dreaded  moat 
on  eart^K  9x1^- upon  Jhev  with  such  a 
fiery,  ^^rp^nHlHe  gaJse.  > 

She  arrew  dizay,  and  gasped  for  breath  :- 


for  there  was  a  look  more  of  a  demon 
than  of  a  man  on  the  face  before  her. 
Alone  with  him  In  that  deserted  house, 
too  far  from  the  village  for  her  cries  to 
reach  human  ears— nothiniif  but  Heaven 
could  saye  her  now.  All  the  dangers  of 
her  appalling  situfitlon  burst  upon  hei* 
at  once.  A  dimneaa  stole  over  her  eves 
—the  sound  of  many  waters  was  In  her 
ears— her  heart  throbbed  like-the  muffled 
beating  of  a  drum,  and  she  would  have 
fallen  had  she  not  graspied  the  wall  for 
support. 

"I  see  you  have  not  forgotten  me. 
Edllh,"^^  were  his  first  words,  spoken  with 
cold,  bitter  sarcasm.  "When  last  we 
parted  ^ou  had  decidedly  the  advantage 
of  me;  now  the  tables  have  turned,  and 
Edith  Percival  is  again  In  tny,  power !?'' 

She  strove  to  speak;  but,  though  her 
lips  moved  she  could  not  articulate  a 
word. 

"You  mistook  me  for  PrfeB,".  he  went 
on.  in  the  same  mocking  ^:one:  "  'tis  a 
wondrous  pity  you  were  disappointed. 
You  never  need  call  on  htnii  agrkin.  Tf-hls 
night  is  the  crisis  of,  both  our  lives. 
For  what  purpose,  do  you  think,  I  have 
had  you  brought  here?" 

"I  know  not,"  said  Edith,  speaking  in 
^   voice    yet    faint    with    terror.         ^^ 

"Listen,  then:  this  nigHt  you  must 
either  consent  to.  be  .my"~*ride  or  yeaj 
will  never  live  to  see  the  sun  riae  agalnf 

His  face  wore  the  look  of  a  flehd— his 
glittering  eyes  were  fixed  dn  her.  face; 
his  voice  sounded  low,  hoarse  and  utt- 
•  natural,  in  thAt  dreary  room. 
•■  Her  lips  parted— her  eyes  dilated  wltli 
horror;  her  face  wa,8  deadly  white,  but 
na  cry  escaped  her.  Her  very  he«rt 
seemed  for  a  moment  to  stand  still  at 
his. appalling  word.",  and  ifaen— the  cour- 
age that  had .  never  Wen  hers  before 
was  granted  her  in  that  dreadful  mp-- 
ment.  In  her  awful  peril,  fear  and 
horror  alike  passed  away,  and  i  feeHng 
Of  Intense  loathing  and  lofty  scorn  t6r 
him  who  stooi  before  her  took  their 
pl^ce.  Drawing  herself,  up  to  her  full 
■  T 'i  ?*»e  shook  back  her  golden  ha«; 
and  fixing  her  large  blue  eyes  full  dti 
his  face  she  said,  in  a  voice  WhoS^  ii*ery 
calmness  startled  even  herself-         •   i'  <. 

"My  Itfe  you  may  take,  fpr  it  is  In  ybiiP 
power;  but  I  would  die  a  thcKufiand 
Qf  thine?'*^"^^  than  be  bride  or  aiight 
Her  fearless  words  and  undaun^ 
manner  were  so  unexpected,  that,  he 
started  back  a  pace,  and  stood  regard Ir« 
her  In  silent,  wonder.  It  was  but  for  a 
moment,  and  the  fiend  wfthin  his  heart 
was  aroused  into  fury  teif fold  greater 
than  before.  •^i.,  °  ■ 

\.llt^^  ^*?**  <iare  def y  me  «»us<''  he  m  1, 
setting   hs  teeth    hard-.-toeethor-n  "Bo4, 

J  know  tt ;    but  deuith   i»  pref ef able 


■^muiMirmm^ 


THE    HERMIT   OF'  THE   CUFFS. 


?l 


emon 
|e  her. 

Jiea  to 
leaven 
rers  of 
(n   hei' 

eyes 
M  her 
luffled 

have 
Ul  for 

me, 
with 

'■    we 

[ntage 

and 

Jh  her 
ate   a 


to  bekigr  the  wife  of  a  demon  incarnate, 
^such  as  you!" 

His    face    grew    livid    with    diabolical 
'passion,  and  he  grasped  her  by  the  arm 
so   fliercely   that   she   could   scarcely   re- 
press a  cry  of  pain. 

"Consent  to  be  my  wife,  or  by  aH  the 
fiends  in  flames,  this  shall  enter  your 
heart!"  he  hissed,  as  he  brandished  the 
gleaming  dagger  before  her  eyes. 

"O  Ralph  De  Lisle!  lay  not  the  weight 
of  this  dreadful'  crime  on  your  souT  I 
conjure  yovj!"  exclaimed  Edith,  laying 
her  small  white  hand  on  his  arm,  and 
looking  up  in  his  face  with  her  earnest 
eyes;  "by  the  memory  of  the  past,  when 
you  were  young  and  guiltless,  I  implore 
you  to  spare. my  life!  Think  of  the  re- 
morse you  will  endure  for  this  awful 
crime  in  days  to-.trome!  O  Rallph!  Ralph! 
by,  the  love  you  bore  me  once,  commit  not 
the  fearful  sin!  Think  of  t.ne  eternal 
woe  pronounced  against  the  murderer 
hereafter,  and  have  mercy  upon  your- 
self!"    i'vT-f'.  ■!  ;•■■■■  ■  ji»     . 

The  thrtiting,'  the  intehise  solemhity  of 
her  tone  awed  even  his  heart  of  stone. 
Like  some  wandering  strain  of  music'  it 
broke  upon  his  ear,  and  for  a^  moment 
he  paused,  appalled  at  the  magnitude  of 
the -crime  he  was  about  to  commit.  But 
his  evil  mentor  whispered  in  his  >«  ear: 
"It  is  too  late  tonretreat"— and  the  chord 
she  ha4  touched  no  longer  vibrated. 

"You  prate  in  vain!"  he  exclaimed; 
"once  again,  I  ask  you,  will  you  be  my 
wife?" 

"Never— never ! " 

He  paused,  as  if  to  work  his  feelihgit 
up  to  the  most  intense  pitch  of  madden- 
ing Excitement.  '  His  whole  frame  quiv- 
ered and  his  gheistly  face  was  convulsed 
by  Tage. 

"For  tHe  last  time  T  ask  you,  Edith 
Percival,"- he  said.  In  a  voice  hoarse  and 
choked,   "will  you  marry  me,   or  dijf!" 

•;i  will    4ie!" 

Her  words  fell  clear  and  distinct  in  the 
de«|>  silence  of  the  lonely  night.  Foam- 
inir,Vlth  rage,  he  drew  the  slender,. glit- 
tering knife  tfjad  plunged  it  up  to  the 
hUtl^, her  side! 

•Tjhe  hot  blood  spurted  up  in  hia  face. 
With  one  wild  cry  of  mortal  agony  she 
feU.tp  ^the  ground. 

©e  Lts!%  stood  above  her,  ghastly  and 
pafailjrzed:  by  the  awful  deed.  With  one 
last  effort  she  rose  on  her  elbow,  fixed 
h©*"  flying  eyes  on  his  face  and  drew  out 
the  dagger.  'A  torrent  of  blood  flowed 
over  her  snojvy  hands  and  dyed  with 
crimson  the  floor  around.  Her  white 
lips  parted,  but  no  sound  came  forth— 
her  eyes  grew  glased  and  sightless,  and 
she  fell  back;  stiff,  and  cold,  and  lifeless. 
'  Abd  tTie^TB,  rm0i(f  Itght  of  the  solemn 
stars,  In  the  wi#ly  silence  of  the  night„ 
the  feaffM  ti'a^edy  had  been  enaciad- 
The  coTd  glare  of  the  mocntight,  streitm- 


Ing  through  the  broken  casement,  fell 
softly  and  pityingly  on  the  still  form 
that  lay  on  thfe  ground.  The  golden  Wfttr 
fell  over  her  face,  but  the  wild,  despiiilf-' 
ing  eyes  seeftied  still  fixed  on  the  face 
of  her  murderer,  as  he  stood,  like  oiie 
turned  to  stone,  above  her.  Her  white 
festal  garments  were  red  with  blood,-  and 
one  little  hand  still  held  the .  dagger, 
dyed  with  the  same  dreadful  hue. 

De  Lisle  stood  rooted  to  the  gi  .diiid, 
f eelint,  as  though  he  neither  lived  wir 
breathed.  Everjrthing  danced  red  and 
fiery  before  his  eyes— his  brain  and  heart 
seemed  rending  In  twain.  Heilven  of 
heavens!  how  those  dying,  despairing 
eyes  seemed  glaring  upon  him ! 

Maddened;,  frenzied,  crazed,  he  turned 
to  rqah  from  the  building.  His  foot 
sti;-uck  against  something,  and  he  stum- 
bled. He  gljanced  down,  and  saw  it  was 
the  fatal  dagger.  With  a  fearful  bath 
he  hurled  it  from  him  over  the  craggy 
bluff  and  fled  out  into  the  op«*n  air.' 

He  paused  for  a  moment  and  pressed 
his  hands  heavily  to  his  burning  tenir 
pies,  that  throbbed  madly  beneath  his 
fingers.  His  eyes  were  like  burning 
coals— his  Hps  were  hot  and  parched,  and 
his  hands  trembled  as  though  he  were 
stricken  with  the  palsy.  The  night-wind 
seemed  to  shriek  in  his  ear.  "Murderer." 
Ringing— ringing  through  heart  and 
brain  was  the  last  dying  cry,  until  he 
stopped   his  ears  In   aeronized  horror.     " 

What  should  he  do?  Whtthfr  should 
he  go?  His  first  impulse  was  to  rush 
from  that  dreadful  spot,  aAd  fly— fly 
far  from  the  world,  far  from  hte  yellow 
men,  and  far  from  himself.  One  other 
idea  filled  his  mind:  it  was  to  destroy 
the  evidence  of  his  crime— to  burn  the 
old  house,  and  what  It  contained.  He 
could  not  endure  to  see  It  standing  there, 
so  dark  and  ghastly,  seeming  to  mock 
him  In  his  agony  of  remorse.  There  was 
a  pile  of  loose  brushwood  near.  He  set 
it  on  fire,  and  paused  to  gaze;  aa 

— -— "fierce  and  hi^h 
The  death-pile  biazed- unto  the  sky."    t   . 

How  red  and  angry  the  flames  looked! 
Were  they,  too,  tinged  with  blood? 

He  knew  the  place  would  soon  ♦be  sur- 
rounded, and  fee  dared  not  pause  to  oee 
his  dreadful  work  accomplished.  Like 
one  pursued  by  a  demon,  he  fled,  and 
paused  not  until  he  had  gained  the.  vil- 
lage. There  was  no  one  astir;  ail  were 
buried  in  peaceful  repose,  unconscious 
of  the  awful  crime  that  had  just  been, 
committed.  How  the  murderer  envied 
them  as  he  flew  past.. 

He  paused  not  until  he  had  gained 
his  own  room,  and  locked  himself  in.  A 
flask  of  branrty  strtod'  on  the  table.  Otess 
after  glass  of  the  fiery  liquid  he  drained 
to  drown  recollection;   b>rt  atl  in  vainr-. 


?■  -a 


t 


82 


THE    HERUfT  4iF    THE    GLIFFti. 


»i\  In  vain!  Those  dying  eyes— thojt  de- 
spairing cry— that  last  Imploring  ifa«e, 
were  before  him  still;  and  he  paced  up 
and  down  the  rootn  like  a  maniac,  not 
daring  to  pause  one  moment  in  his  rapid 
walk. 
"Fire!     Fire!"  ^ 

The  cry  rang  through  the  streets,  and 
roused  him  into  action.  J^ll  was  bustle 
and  confusion.  M«n  were  rushing 
through  the  streets  toward  the  scene 
of  the  tragedy.  He  coilld  not  endure 
this  dreadful  inaction  longer.  Opening 
the  door  he  left  the  inn.  and  mingling 
with  th^  crowd,  rushed  toward  the  burn- 
ing house. 

Amid  all  that  crowd  no  one  litrove  so 
zealously  to  extinguish  the  flames  as 
he.  In  the  wild  excitement  there  was 
no  time  to  think,  and  hf  worked  as 
though  his  very  life  depended, on  it. ,  All 
their  efforts  were,  however,  vain — higher 
and  higher  rose  the  flames,  rearing  <helr 
heads.  ,red  and  fiery,  unto  heaven,  until 
Dp  Lisle  almo.st  fancied  they  were  cryfng 
for  vengeance  on  him. 

Suddenly  a  bright  sheet  of  flame  shot 
into  the  cloudless  sky— the  next  moment 
there  was  a  loud  crash,  as  the  whole 
building  fell,  a  mass  of  red.  flery  ruins 
to  the  ground. 

De  Lisle  felt  as  though  the  sight  was 
leaving  his  eyes,  as  he  witnessed  that 
last  act  in  the  fearful  tragedy  of  the 
night.  The  people,  wondering  how  the 
fire  coul(Lhave  originated,  were  hurrying 
to  their  'Tiomes.  He  dared  not  venture 
to  go  with  them;  for.  in  his  excitement, 
he  fancied  every  one  could  read  "mur- 
derer" in  his  face.  He  turned,  and 
^plunged  lnt(5  the  dark  pine  w()ods,  scarce- 
ly knowing  whither  he  went^  only  strly- 
Irrg  to  escape  from  .himself  and  his 
haunting  remorse.'  He  could  hear  that 
cry  as  th^^wind  wailed  like  a  lost  spirit 
through  tfie  trees— he  could  see  those 
inploring  eyes  still  before  him,  wher- 
ever he  \t'ent.  He  put  his  hand  over  his 
eye^  :u  shut  thern  out.  but  all  In  vain — 
the:  .'?¥;•>  Bf\\y  ".'^fore  him:  so  mournful, 
so  beste.'AJj  i  so  >;idly  reproachful. 
,  "O,  tha*.  *l)is  njtfht  were  over!"  he 
said,  wiping  (h«  perspiration  from  his 
heat'd  h.v.  ^  rhp  havp  I  d-  le.  that 
I  sK  aife  }w  XctiuvKl  ilius?  ' »  for  the 
watfi::.  ».<  r.s .!  e-  tt,  tuown  maddening 
memt),  '  '    ,&ha>i  .  I    never     aK^'n     know 


peace;     *'..   J    ii«vr ;    f scape     rom    my- 

Through  tif*^  &'\n,  soiemn  woo4s  he 
paced  unv  !  ir>»,  ng.  The  red  sunlight 
gilded  with  t,  J.  ■  n  glory  the  green  tree- 
top^,  and  the  murderer  shrank  frr>m  its 
bright,  k^en  gaze  like  the  guilty  twing 
that  he  was.  He  hurried  to  his  rooms, 
djalned  glass  after  glass  of  brandy,  and 
then  flung  himself  on  his  bed,  to  lose,  ttii 
fevprish  sleep,  the  recollection  of  what 
.he  had  done. 


CHAPTBI^  XXVI^, 

MEXT  MORNINO 

"And  over  all  there  hung  a  baleful  gloom-  ^ 
The  step  stole  fearful  tnrough  ieach,  shad- 
owy room. 
Dark,  sumptuous,  solemn  as  somi^  Bastt  rn 

pile 
Where  mutes  keep  watch^-a  home  without 
a  smile."  -'-' 

.  — Bulwer. 

*  •  .    ■" 

TfiE  red  light  of  coming  morn  dispers- 
ed the  revelers  from  Perdval  Hall.  One 
by  one  they  departed  until  tvhere  lately 
all  was  music  and  m'rth^  profound 
silence  reigned. 

And  father  and  mother,  brother  and 
sister,  all  slept,  little  dreaming,  of  th* 
fate  of  her  they  loved.  During  the  night, 
when  the  gay  hours  flitted  by  on  "rosy 
wings,"'  no  presentiment  of  what  wap 
passing  in  the  lonely  house  on  the  bluff 
arose  before  them  to  mar  their  festivity. 
And  now,  all  unconscious  of  her  absence 
or  h*r  dreadful  fate,  they  slept  peace- 
fully. 

"Where  is  Edith?"  asked  Major  Perci- 
val,  as  the  family  assembled  a  few  hours 
after  around  the  breakfast-table. 

"Don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  replied  Hell. 
to  whom  the  question  was  addressed: 
"I  lyiven't  seen  her  since  early  last 
night."  ^ 

"She  was  not  among  the  tlancers  dur- 
ing the  morning,"  remarked  Gus;  "I 
missed  her,  and  heard  several  wondering 
at  her  absence." 

"Strange,"  said  the  majer.  frowning 
slightly.  "What  must  our  guasts  have 
thought?  Edith  has  acted  very  strange- 
ly of  late." 

"Perhaps  she  is  lU,"  said  Mrs.  Perci- 
val,  anxiously.  "Tell  one  of  the  ser- 
vants. Ellen,  to  go  up  to  her.  room  and 
see." 

"mi  go  myself,"  said  Nell,  rising,  and 
hurriedly    leaving   the   room. 

In  a  few  moments  she  reappeared,  and 
with  a  look  of  alarm,  announced  that 
Edith  was  not  in  her  room,  and  tnat 
her  bed  had  not  been  slept  in,  at  <a]l 
that  night.  ^ 

"Where  can  she  be?"  said  MrSi  jRercl- 
val,     now     thoroughly     alarmed.      Oopd 
heaven!      something     must     have     hap 
pened." 

"Ring  the  bell  and  see  if  any  of  the 
servants  know,"  said  the  major,  inore 
angry  than  frightened. 

Nell  obeyed,  and  In  a  rhojrtent  Betty 
made    her    appearance.  ' 

"Have  you  seen  Miss  Edith  this  morn- 
ing?" demanded  her  mtoster,  as  she 
entered. 

"This    morning?    No,    sir." 

"Do  you  know  wht 
the  major,  for  the  ttrg 
to  feel  slightly  alarmel 

"Yes.  sir;  little  Eddy  Dillon  came  here 
for  her  last  night,  saying  his; sister  liar- 


,,Bh.e    Is?"    said 
!^|liptme   beginning- 


THE   BERMtT   OF   THE   CUFFS. 


S8 


|cn.  sh.id- 
Bast.  rn 
Without 

iUlwer. 

IdlBpers- 
^11.    One 

[e  lately 
frofound 

>er   and 
I;  of    th( 
]e  nigrht, 
In  "rosy 
»t    was 
»e  bluff 
festivity, 
ibsence 
peace-    . 

Perci- 
hours 

d  l^el). 
reased : 
y    last 

rs  dur- 
Us;  "I 
iderlng 

'  have 
range- 

Percl- 
i  ser- 
n  and 

'.  and 

.  a^d 
thHX 

Km- 

erpl- 
3opd 
l?ap 

the 
lore 

?tty 

•rn- 
she 


aid 
BR- 

ire 

[J-- 


rlet  was  dying,  and  wished  to  see  her. 
She  went  with  him  and  bade  me  tell 
you,  ma'atn,  but  I  found  no  chance." 

"Oh,  then,  'she's  safe  enough,  I  sup- 
pose," said  the  major,  while  Mrs.  Percl- 
val  drew  a  long  breath,  as  though  re- 
lieved. 

At  this  moment,  Nugent  sauntered 
carelessly  In.  '- 

"Well,  good  folks,  have  you  heard  the 
news ?'^  he  asked,  throwing  himself  In- 
dolently on  a  lounge. 

"No— what  news?"  said  Nell. 

"Why,  the  old  barn  on  the  bluff  was 
burned   down  last   night."   said   Nugent. 

"Burned  down!  it  must  have  been  the 
work  of  an  incendiary,  then,"  said  his 
father. 

"Doubtless  It  was,  though  I  cannot 
see  what  could  have  been  the  object  for 
which   It   was   done,"    replied   his   son. 

"Some  misoWevously-inclined  person, 
who  wished  to  rouse  the  villagers,"  sug- 
gested Ous. 

"Very  likely:  'twas  fit  for  nothing  but 
a  bonfire.    Where's  Edith?" 

"At  the  Widow  Dillon's." 

"The  Widow  Dillon's!  Why,  she  hasn't 
been   there   since  yesterday   morning." 

"What!*   . 

"She  has  not  been  there  since  yester- 
day morning."  said  Nugent,  decidedly; 
"I  was  going  past  there  about  an  hour 
ago,  and  Mrs.  Dillon  called  me  In  to  see 
her  littie  girl.  Harriet  begged  me  to  tell 
Edith  to  come  to  her  Immediately,  and 
Mrs.  Dillon  said  she  had  been  longing 
for  her  since  she  had  been  there  yester- 
day morning." 

"What  can  be  the  meaning  of  all  this?" 
said  the  major,  rising  hurriedly,  while 
Mrs.  Perclval  grew  pale  with  terror. 
"Her  son  came  here  for  Edith  last  night, 
and  they  both  departed  together." 

"She  must  nave  left  him  then,  sir," 
said  N  agent,  "for  she  certainly  -^id  not 
accompany  him  home.  He  was  in  the 
cottage  while  I  was  there,  and  made  no 
mention  of  her  having  started  with  hlrn; 
neither  did  the  widow  allude  to  her  hav- 
ing sent  for  Edith  at  all.  And  now  I 
recollect,  she  said  she  would  have  sent 
for  her  last  night,  but  on  account  of 
the  ban,  she  thought  she  would  not 
trouble  her." 

"O  Major  Percival!  .something  dread- 
ful has  happened."  said  Mrs.  Percival, 
rising  in  great  agitation;  "I  feel  it!  I 
kaow  it!  She  heis  been  carried  off  again, 
and  we  shall  never  see  her  more!" 

"Nonsense,  Mrs.  Percival!  She  is 
doubtless  somewhere  In  the  village," 
said  the  major,  concealing  his  own 
alarm,    *1  wll!  go  in  search  of  herfjf 

"Let  me  accompany  you,"  itaid  Nugent, 
springing  up;  for  the  many  dangers 
Edith  had  recently  e.«ieaped  made  them 
doubly  anxious. 

Both  quitted  the  house  together,  ard 


talked  rapidly  In.  the  dJrecUon  of  the 

village.'---  ••  ••^T.^^i'^-"":,..,  -■/v^■-rv■     >*v    ^' 

'.'I  tf***  *'*i^re  may -^be  danger,  father," 
said  Nugent,  uneaSiJy;  "the  whole  affttlf 
seems  rather  mysterious."  *•   * 

../'if^*^?."  forbid!"  said  his  father,"  hur- 
Uedly;  but  we  must  see  this  boy  with 
whom  she  departed,  and  learn  what  has 
happened   from   him."  * 

They  walked  on  in  silence  until  they 
reache^^the    widow's     humble     cottage 

^m^  ^*"?"  ^''^  ^^^"^  *n  the  doorwSy. 
looking  alarmed  and  excited. 

"O  Major  Percival!  I'm  so  gtart  to  see 
you!  Just  look  here."  and  the  widow 
displayed  a  purse  filled  with  bright  gold 
guineas.  *    ■ 

"Why  Mrs.  Dillon,  what  piece  of  good 
fortune  is  this  you  have  met  with?  Tou 
liaven't  robbed  a  bank.  I  hope,"  said 
young  Percival.  / 

"No.  indeed.  Mr.  Nugent."  suld  th*' 
widow,  anxiously.  "  'twas  he  brought 
this  ho.Tie."  And  she  pointed  to  where 
^^J^^\  hopeful  son;  and  he,  with  his 
finger  in  his  mouth,  was  looking  dog- 
gedly on  the  ground. 

"Eddy:  why.  man  alive,  where  did  you 
get  all  this  money?"  said  Nugt nt.  giving 
him  n  shake.  "Look  up.  sir.  Have  you 
turned   highwayman?" 

The  boy  sat  in  sulky   siler  <?. 

"I'm  terribly  afeared  he  3tr  le  It."  said 
the  widow,  in  evident  distre'^^.  ;  "he  won'* 
tell  where  he  got  it.  and  I  know  he 
never     ame  honestly  'oy  it," 

"T'  is  s.  rious,"  Ffv..l  tne  major,  "and 
mil  )e  seen  to.  Bse  l:ere,  my  fine 
fell.  '  he  said,  sternly,  'where  did  you 
gel  lis  money?  Have  yuu  stolen  If" 
No.  I  didn't  steal  it,"  said  the  boy. 
su'     ily. 

Ijere  did  you  get  It.  then?    Answer 
'^        or    I'll     have     you     committed     to 
)n,"  said  the  major,  with  Increasing 
.    nness.   in  order  to  intimidate  him. 
Kddy    looked    up,    and   seeing   the   In- 
flexible  iook   on    the   f .'  ce   bending  over 
him.  burst  into  tears. 

Come,  my  little  man,  don't  cry,"  said 
Nugent,  patting  him  on  the  head,  "tell 
the  truth,  and  nothing  shall  be  done 
to   vnu.     Where   did    you   get   It?" 

"The  man  gave  it  to  me,"  sobbed 
E^     'V.  ■ 

^  What    man?"    inquired    Percival. 

"The  man  who  told  me  to  bring  Mio  . 
Edith    to    the    bluff,    last    night." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  major,  catch^ 
Ing  him  so  fiercely  by  the,  arm  that  the 
boy  uttered  a  cry  of  pain. 

"Father,  be  calm,"  said  Nugent, 
though  his  own  face  grew  deadly  pale, 
"we  mu.vt  hear  all  the  particulars,  ar^ 
if  you  frighten  him  zo  he  will  not 
«neak.  Begin  new  at  the  first,,  Kddy. 
Who  was  this  man?"  - 

"I  don't  know— he  didn't  tell  me  his 
name, "  replied  Eddy, 


LkSHf 


,;^i 


H4 


TBE    HERMIT    of    the    CUFFS. 


i  1 


"Can  you  describe  him?    What  rid  he 

look  like?"  .  ^  ^.     ,    ».  . 

"He  was  tall  and  dark,  with  black  hair 
and  whiskers,  and  wore  a  long,  black 
«loak.  I  couldn't  see  his  face,  'cause  his 
hat   was   pulled   away   down," 

"When  did  you  meet  him  first?" 

"Yes'day  evenln«-  He  asked  me  If  Miss 
Edith  didn't  visit  Harriet,  an*  I  said  yes; 
and  then  told  me  to  meet  him  on 
the  bluff  at  nine  o'clock,  and  that  he 
would  pay  me  well." 

"Did  you  go?"  asked  Nugent,  growing 
more  and  more  excited. 

"Yes,  I  went  and  waited  for  him  in 
the  old  barn.  He  came  and  told  me  to 
go  up  to  the  hall,  and  say  Harriet  want- 
ed Miss  Edith— and  than  bring  her  to 
him  and  he'd  pay  rne~I"— 

TI  1  boy  i).auaed,  and  feianceJ  In  terror 
at  the  agitated  face  of  the  major. 

"Go    on,  ^  said   Nugent    hoarsely. 

"7'ui  alraid,"  said  the  boy,  again  be- 
ginning to  cry. 

"Go  on,  go  on,  go  on!"  said  the  young 
man,  impatiently;  "no  one  shall  touch 
you.    Did  you  obey?" 

"Yes.  I  went  up  to  he  hall  and  Miss 
Edith  came  with  me.  She  ran  forward 
when  she  saw  the  man,  and  cailed  him 
Fred,  and  he  gave  me  this  money  and 
told  me  to  go,  and  as  I  ran  dov;n  the 
hill  I  heard  her  say:  'O  Fred,  tiiis  is 
very  rash!'  and  then  she  went  with  him 
into  the  old  house.*' 

Father  and  son  gazed  into  each  oiher'a 
faces,  pale  with  undefined  terror, 

"Well,  what  else?"  said  Nufent,  al- 
most giddy  with  a  strange  appr^^^-'sion. 

"Then  I  come  home, "  v»ent  on  the  boy, 
reluctantly;  "but  1  wanted  to  hear  who 
he  was.  and  what  he  was  going  to  do. 
So  I  came  back  and  stood  where  I  could 
see  them  without  they  seeing  me.  I 
couldn't  see  his  face,  'cause  he  haM  his 
back  turned,  but  I  could  hear  them  talk- 
ing. He  asked  her  to  go  with  him  and 
marry  him,  or  something,  and  she  said 
she   wouldn't,    and   then" — 

Again  the  boy  paused,  and  covered  his 
face  with  a  shudder. 

"Well,  end  then,"  said  Nugent,  in  a 
voice  that  sounded  husky  and  unnatuial. 

"He  got  awfully  angry,  and  took  out  a 
lortg  knife;  and  I  got  frightened  and 
ran  away,"  said  the  boy,  trembling  at 
the    recollection. 

Nugent  paused  for  a  moment  to  mas- 
ter the  emotions  that  threatened  to  un- 
man hiiirt.  Then  with  an  effort  at  calm- 
ness he  said: 

"And  what  followed   next?" 

"I  went  home  and  went  into  bed," 
continued  Eddy,  "until  I  hoard  them 
singing  out  'fire,'  and  then  I  got  up  and 
went  to  the  blufT,  and  the  barn  was 
burning,  I  »aw  the  man  in  the  crowd, 
but  I  was  ai'rald  to  speak  to  him,  he 
seemed  so  wild-like.  When  the  barn  was 
all  burned  down  the  ptsople  went  a>vay 


and  I  saw  him  go  off  into  the  WGod.s 
and   that's  all   I   know." 

"Merciful  heaven!"  exclaimed  Nugent, 
reeling  back,  as  though  stunned  by  a 
heavy   blow,   "Edith  is  murdered!" 

"And  Fred  Stanley  Is  her  murderer," 
said  the  major,  in  a  voice  so  deep  and 
unearthly  that  it  seemed  to  issue  from 
the  jaws  of  death. 

"It  cannot  be!  it  cannot  be!  it  is  mon- 
strous! impossible!  absurd!"  exctaimed 
Nugent,  in  wild  excitement.  "Fred 
Stanley  could  never  be  .an  assassin!" 

"I  tell  you  he  has  murdered  her,"  said 
his  father,  in  a  tone  of  concentrated 
fierceness;  "and  by  the  heaven  above  us. 
his  life  shall  pay  for  hers.  An  eye  foi- 
an  eye,  a  toeth  for  a  tooth,  and  a  life 
for  a  life!"  he  cried,  rushing  madly  from 
the   house. 

Nugent  followed;  and  feeling  the 
necessity  for  calmness  and  firmness  in 
the  dreadful  crisis,  he  laid  his  hand  on 
his  arm  and  arrested  his  fiying  steps. 

"Father,  father!  be  calm!  be  calm  for 
heaven's  sake!  Think  of  my  mother,  if 
she  sees  you  thus,  and  hears  this  news; 
the  shock  will  kill  her.  For  her  sake 
'"ompose  yourself  and  be  calm '' 

"Calm,  sir!  dare  you  talk  of  calmness 
when  my  daughter  has  been  foully  as- 
sassinated? O  Edith!  my  child!  my 
child!  I  AvIU  not  think  of  mourning  for 
tl  eo  until  I  have  had  vengeance  on  thy 
murderer!" 

"Father.  It  ifc  Impossible  that  Fred 
Stanley  has  been  guilty  of  this  dreadful 
deed.  I  will  never  believe  It!"  cried 
Percival,  excitedly.  "A  nobler  heart 
never  beat  within  the  breast  of  man 
than  his." 

"Who  else  is  there  to  have  done  such 
an  act?"  said  the  major  passionately. 
"Did  we  not  part  in  anger  a  few  hours 
before?  I  tell  you  there  was  murder  in 
his  flashing  eyes  as  I  watched  him  ride 
away.  You  heard  how  it  occurred.  He 
urged  her  to  fiy  with  him.  She,  dreading 
my  anger,  refused,  and  no  doubt,  riad- 
dened  by  her  resistance,  he  slew  her  on 
the  spot.  O  my  daughter!  my  daughter! 
why  was  I  not  near  to  save  you  from  so 
dreadful  a  fate?" 

He  wrung  his  hands  and  groaned  aloud 
In  bitter  anguish. 

"But  the  villain  shall  meet  his  doom." 
he  again^  exclaimed,  with  the  old  fierce- 
ness flashing  in  his  eyes;  "this, very  day 
shall  he  be  arrested  I" 

They  walked  on  in  silence  until  they 
reached   the   foot   of   the   bluff. 

"Let  us  visit  the  scene  of  the  tragedy," 
said  Nuprent,  as  they  paused  for  a  mo- 
rnenlr  to  contemplate  the  heap  of  black, 
smoking  ruins 

They  turned  tc  ascend.  Scarcely  had 
they  gono  a  dozen  stepa,  when  the  ma- 
jor's c-ye  fell  on  something  brf.ght  gleam- 
ing:   among    the    rocks.    He    stooped    to 


THE   HERMIT   OF   THE   CUFFS. 


86 


l»i(  k  It  up,  and  started  back  with  a  cry 
of  horror. 

It  was  the  fatal  dagger,  red  with  the 
fliied  blood.  As  he  turned  It  over,  his 
<ye  fell  on  the  name  engraven  on*  the 
liandle— "Frederick  Stanley." 


re 


"Just  heaven!  how  wonderful  is  thy 
trlbutlon!  he  exclaimed,  as  he  handed 
I  he  knife  to  his  son.  "With  this  fatal 
l)lade  the  deed  was  done,  and  the  mur- 
derer's name  Is  on  It.  In  the  excite- 
ment of  the  moment  he  has  cast  It 
:i\vay  and  forgotten  It." 

Pale  with  horror,  Nugent  examined  It. 
He  had  often  seen  the  dagger  with  Fred; 
it  had  been  given  him  by  his  father  In 
his  boyhood  and  was  prized  as  his  gift. 
To  doubt  his  guilt  longer  seemed  out 
n(  *he  question,  and  yet  how  could  he 
heU-'ve  him  ffullty?  Fred  Stanley,  so 
brave,  so  generous,  so  noble-hearted, 
i^ullty  of  so  dreadful  a  crime!  Oh.  never, 
iii'ver!  The  thought  was  too  unnatural 
to  be  entertained. 

They  stood  at  length  gazing  with  fet 
inffs     impossible     to     describe     on     th 
smoldering   remafns   of   the    fire.    There 
FMith  had  been  slain  and  her  body  had 
perished    amid    the    flames.  .   ' 

It  was  with  very  different  feelings 
they  stood  gazing  upon  the  charred  and 
."smoking  ruins.  In  Major  Perclval's 
breast,  above  every  other  feeling,  was 
the  fierce,  burning  desire  for  vengeance. 
He  could  scarcely  think  of  sorrow,  so 
intense  was  his  desire  for  revenge;  it 
seemed  an  Injustice  to  her  memory  to 
allow  her  murderer  one  moment  longer 
to  burden  the  earth.  Hanging  seemed 
a  thousand  times  too  good  for  him,  and 
he  would  have  given  worlds  to  see  him 
broken  on  the.  wheel,  tortured  on  the 
rack,  or  roasted  at  a  slow  fire  for  the 
rrlme  he  had  committed. 

In  Nugent's  heart,  horror  for  his  sis- 
ter's dreadful  fate,  a  feeling  of  remorse 
that  he  had  not  been  near  to  save  her, 
were  mingled  with  agonizing  doubts, 
whether  or  not  to  believe  Fred  Stanley 
etuilty.  One  moment  he  almost  hated 
himself  for  believing  him  capable  of  such 
an  action:  and  then  the  startling  train 
of  circumstantial  evidence  would  arise 
before  him,  until  there  seemed  no  longer 
r.oom  for  the  shadow  of  a  doubt.  Amid 
all  this  war  of  conflicting  emotions, 
neither  of  them  suspected  Ralph  De 
1-isle.  whom  they  imagined  far  away. 

"Ha!  what  have  we  here?"  exclaimed 
Nuprent,  suddenly,  as  a  portion  of  a  blue 
scarf  caught  his  eye,  lying  unjJer  a  char- 
red and  broken  stick.  He  picked  It  up. 
Both  recognized  It  as  one  Edith  had 
worn  that  fatal  night,  It  was  of  rich 
blue  silk,  embroidered  with  silver  fringe, 
and  now  inore  than  half  burned.  It  was 
spotted  with  blood  and  pear  the  end 
was  a  hole,  exactly  such  as  would  be 
made  by  the  dagger. 
"it  is  but  another  proof    >r  his  guilt,"  j 


f.^\^}}^  major.  In  a  low,  thick  voice. 
O  Edith!  Edith!  but  there  is  no  time 
for  mourning!  When  Justice  is  satisfied 
there  will  be  time  enough  for  tears." 

His  eyes  "Were  burning  and  tearless,  his 
face  was  deadly  pale,  and  there  was  a 
look  of  fierce  determination  in  his  face. 

As  they  reentered  the  village  they 
were  met  by  the  bustling  little  landlord 
of   the   inn. 

"Ah!  good  morning.  Major  Perclval! 
good  morning,  Mr.  Nugent!  fine  day 
this;  been  up  to  the  fire,  I  s'pose;  queer 
thing  that,  queer  thing.  S'pose  you 
haven't  seen  anything  of  a  tall  fellow  In 
a  black  cloak,  and  hat  over  his  face, 
hey?" 

"What  of  him?"  said  Nugent,  with 
breathless  Interest. 

"Oh.  nothing!  nothing!  only  he  came 
here  late  last  night,  and  ordered  a  room- 
then  went  out  and  didn't  come  in  till 
after  midnight.  Two  or  three  minutes 
after  he  was  off  to  the  flre,  and  since 
hat  nobody's  seen  him.  Funny  chap! 
A'ent  off  without  paying  the  reckoning, 
ar\6  drank  more  brandy  than  I  like  to 
thiiik  of.  Good  morning!"  And  the  land- 
lord bustled  away. 

Major  Perclval  hurried  to  the  nearest 
magistrate  to  make  a  deposition  of  the 
case,  and  obtain  a  warrant  for  the  arrest 
of  Fred  Stanley.  Nugent,  finding  the 
task  of  announcing  the  dreadful  news 
devolved  upon  him,  hastened  home- 
stunned  and  bewildered,  like  one  who 
walks   In    a    dream. 

Gently  as  he  broke  the  news  to  them, 
the  effect  was  terrible.  Mrs.  Perclval 
fell  into  violent  convulsions,  and  .was 
carried  to  her  room.  Nell  grew  deadly 
white,  and  such  a  feeling  of  sickness 
came  over  her  that  for  a  moment  she 
was  on  the  verge  of  fainting.  But  when 
she  heard  Fred  accused  as  the  mur- 
derer, indignation  restored  her  to  her- 
selt    and   she  ipxclalmed,    vehemently: 

"I'll  never  believe  it— never,  never!  I 
would  as  soon  credit  it,  Nugent,  if  they 
said  you  did  It  yourself.  Oh,  how  dread- 
ful! how  dreadful!— to  think  we  were 
all  here,  dancing  and  enjoying  ourselves, 
and  Edith  lying  cold  and  dead  without 
one  friend  near  to  aid  her!  O  Edith, 
Edith,  Edith!  my  dearly  beloved  sister!" 
She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands, 
and  wept  so  hysterically  that  both  Nu- 
gent and  Gus  were  alarmed.  The  latter 
endeavored  to  console  her,  hut  she 
pushed  him  away,  saying 

"No.  no!  let  ine  alon  '  Oh.  Edith, 
Edith!  my  murdfnnl  ulster!" 

And  all  through  that  day  she  wandered 
about  the  Klooiny  house,  wringing  her 
hands  and  repeating  that  dear  name — 
her  pale  face,  disheveled  hair  and  disor- 
deied  dress  giving  her  the  look  of  one 
insar".  It  was  a  silent  and  gloomy  man- 
sion indeed.  The  servants,  palo  with 
horror,    stale    about    as    noiselessly    as 


M 


THB   BERMIT   OF   TUB   CUFFS. 


I< 


ghMts  thtouffh  the  Hou»e'.  sdH  as  the 
grave,  save  -when "  a  wild  shriek  from 
the  -darkened  'room  of  Mrs.  Perctval 
would  reach  their,  ears.  And  J>IelI  wan- 
dered vacantly  about,  twisting  her  pale 
ITogers  and  repeating,  "Edith*  Edith!" 
—seeing  but  one  object,  (he  nr>urdered 
form  of  her  sister. 

Through  the  village  the  news  had 
(ti>read  Ilke^  wildfire.  Men  were  gath- 
ered li,  groups  at  every  corner,  talking 
over  the  tragic  occurrence;  women  for- 
got their  household  affairs  to.  speak  of 
the  goodness  of  the  nrurdered  girl  and 
weep  over  her  untimely  fate — for  Edith 
wa»  unlversiftUy  beloved.  People  spoke 
of  it  in  low  whispers,  for  the  whole  affair 
eeemed  wrapped  In  mystery.  Never  had 
such  a  thing  been  heard  of  befdre  to 
that  quiet  little  village,  and  they  almost 
held  their  breath,  as  they  wondered 
whose  turn  it  would  be  next. 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

.  '     .  THE    ARUESr. 

■  '"And  yet  he  sefemK  not  ovcreom*?, 
»•'• Althoul^h  as  yet  hln  voir*   l»t'  dumb." 

*■*.'■■■  ■-'-■■  '  • 

■In  the  little  parlor  of  the  "Bottle  and 
Bowl"  was  Ir^d  Stanley.  He  lay 
stretched  at  full  i  ngth  on  a  lounge,  leis- 
urely smoking  and  listening  to  the  mer- 
ry, ringing  voice  of  Mrs.  Rosie  Wilde,  as 
she  alternately  •  scolded  the  servants, 
laughed  with  the  neighbors  and  talked 
to  the  baby.  And  while  he  Indolently 
watched  the  blue  smoke  wreathing  up- 
ward, Fred  was  thinking. 

He  thought  of  Edith,  iind  wondered  if 
he  should  ever  see  her  dear  face  again; 
of  her  stern  father  and  his  InvincibJe  an- 
tipathy to  himself;  of  his  hated  rival, 
Ralph  De  Lisle;  of  his  father,  who  was 
on  the  eve  of  departure  for  England,  and 
whom  he  had  never  sen  since  the  night 
he  liberated  him;  of  the  Siysterious  her- 
mit, and  wondered  what  new  danger 
was  destined  to  bring  them  face  to  face, 
arid  lastly,  of  himself,  as  yet  undecided 
what  to  do  or  whither  to  go. 

The  quick  tramp  of  horse's  feet  dash- 
ing down  the  street  arresteti  his  atten- 
tion. The  htjrseman.  drew  up  and  alight- 
ed at  the  inn  door.  Fred  fancied  his 
form  was  familiar,  but  he  stood  unde- 
cided until  he  heard  the  neweomei  pro- 
nounce his  name  In  quick,  hurried  nes. 
The  next  moment  the  door  was  'vn 

violently   open,    and     Gus    Elliott  le, 

haggard,    dusty   and    ^  ax'ol-worn  st 

into  the  room. 

"Gus.  my  dear  feljow  It  pobb  ble?" 

exclaimed  Fred,  spring! i...  up  and  Rrasp- 
iftg  hW  hand.  "But,^  h<  .->  ided,  'eelns 
hfs  despairing  face,  "hat  the  .'crlU 
has  happened?" 

Gus   fixed   his   eyes   or?  face, 

could  read  nothing  thei  frank  4    - 

tonishment.  Would  a  gulli        <ii      ct  and 


look' thus?  His  doubts,  If  he  entertained 
any,  vanithed  In  a  moment,  and,  wring- 
ing the  hand  his  friend  extended,  he  ex- 
claimed: 

"Oh,  Fred!  then  you  have  not  beard? 
.How  can  I  tell  you  the  dreadful  story?" 

"What  dreadful  story?  My  dear  Gus, 
sit  down  and  compose  yourself.  You  look 
as  though  you  were  insane." 

"Do  I?  I  may  well  look  Insane.  Fou, 
too,  will  look  Insane,  when  you  have 
heard  my  story." 

"Then  let  me  hear  it." 

"Oh,  Fred!  my  business  here  Is  very 
painful— painful   In   the  extreme!" 

"Then,  my  dear  Gus,  let  me  advise  you 
to  get  It  over  as  soon  as  possible.  The 
longer  you  hesitate  the  worse  It  will  be," 
said  Fred,  resuming  his  seat  on  the 
lounge. 

"Have  you  no  Idea  what  my  errand  Is? 
J  come  from  Perclval  Hall.' 

"Well?"  said  Fred,  Inquiringly. 

G\is  paced  silently  up  and  down. 

"Does  It  concern  Bdlth?"  Inquired 
Fred,  for  the  first  time  Wglnnlng  to  feel 
alarmed.  ' 

"It  does." 

"What  has  happened?  Good  heaven! 
Gus,  has  De  Lisle  carried  her  off  again?" 

"NO;   no!     worse   still!"     groaned   Gus. 

"What  mean  you?"  cried  Fred,  spring- 
ing up,  white  with  apprehension.  "Is  she 
—Is  she"— 

"Dead!"  said  Gus.  solemnly. 

There  was  a  long  pause.  Gus  turned 
to  the  window,  to  hide  his  agitation.  He 
did  not  venture  to  look  at  hiu  friend, 
whose  deep,  labored  breathing  sounded 
unnaturally  loud  in  the  silence  of  the 
room. 

"Where — how— when  did  she  die?"  he 
asked,  at  length,  in  a  voice  so  altered 
that  Gus  started  back  in  terror. 

"Fred,  my  dear  friend,  prepare  your- 
self for  the  worst!"  he  said,  scarcely  dar- 
ing to  tell  all. 

"The  worst  has  passed;  Edith  Is 
dead!  Nothing  you  can  say  now  will  af- 
fect me,"  he  answered,  with  such  unnat- 
ural calmness  that  Fred  almost  feared 
the  blow  had  unsettled  his  reason. 

"Then,    Fred,   she   was— murdered'" 

Another  long  pause  followed.  Fred's 
face  had  grown  so  sternly  rigid  that  It 
looked  as  though  -turned  to  marble. 

"By  whom?"  he  asked. 

"That  is  unknown,"  replied  Gus.  who 
shrank  with  cowardly  fear  from  telling 
him  all. 

"When  was  she— when  did  his  hap- 
pen?" 8ai<J  Fred,  whose  lips  e  jmed  un- 
able to  frame  the  word. 

"The  night  before  last.    The  newe  has 

spread   like    wildfire,    and    I    h^A    hoped 

that  I'ou   had   heard   it  ere  this  and  so 

spared  me  the  pains  of  being  the  first 

'to   annotmce   It." 

"Where  is  Ralph  De  Lisle?"  said  Fred, 


I 


THE   BERMIT   OF    THE    fJLIFFB. 


In  Jiitoni  that  plainly  Indicated  he  had    Hph    there    with    another    «<^Vifr*tM«i> '• 
....!«  ^«..h»  whr.  w«.  t»,«  m«r,l*.r»r  said  the  Cheery  vo»ce  of  RobIp  Wllde 

o,M*"lJ*7?^^?^  PUBhed  open,  and  atein 
?«n.  ^''^''*?'*'  ^^''  "»'^''*''  o'  the  county, 
them  ^    *    cnnBtable.    stood    bWore 

•  «."^''  ^*»"'«y-  I  helleve."  aaid  The  sher- 
iff bowing  to  Pred.  who  lifted  hl8  head 
and  answered  briefly  in  the  affirmative. 

♦  K  T'»«"'.f'»'.  I  arrest  you  In  the  nam*' of 
h/«HTi,  "**?t-  ****  sheriff,  letting  his 
h  ipd  fall  nn  the  young  man's  shoulder. 

Arrest  me!"   aimioi"-.-.^    m — j    — ._ 


little  doubt  who  was  the  murderer 

"T   know   hot.     Moat   probably   on   his 
way  to  Engfland  or  In  the  far  Southwest. 
<   No  ope  suspects  him  of  being  the  mur- 
derer." 

"Who.  then,  can  it  be?  How  could  one 
so  aweet,  so  gentle,  hav^  enemies?  Was 
fihe  robbed  as  well  a»>niurdered?" 

"Her  body  was  not  found,"  said  Qus, 

who   uttered   each   word   as   slowly   and 

reluctantly  as  though  it  burned  his  lips. 

"You  recollect,  perhaps,  the  old  barn  on 

.  the  bluff?" 

"Yes." 

"She  was  decoyed  there  and  slain.  Th 
)iarn  was  afterward  set  on  Are,  and  her 
remains  ^ere  consumed  In  the  flames." 
Bomething  like  a  groan  escaped  the  lipv 
of  Fred.  Sluicing  into  a  seat,  he  shaded 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  for  several 
moments  s^t  silent  and  motionless. 
Then,  without  raising  his  head  or  look- 
ing up,  he  said,  huskily:  , 

'Tell     me     the     particulars.     I     would 
know  all  " 
Sadly  and  reluctantly  Ous  complied. 
Fred  sat  with  his  hand  still  shading  his 
tace— his  lon«,  dark  locks  falling  heavily 
over  his  temples— so  cold  and  still  that 
he  seemed  to  be  slowly  petrffylng.     Gus 
related  all  save  who  was   the  suepected 
murderer— his  lips  refused  to  reveal  that. 
"You  see  the  affair  is  wrapped  in  com- 
plete mystery,"   he  concludtid.     "But   no 
doubt   the   murderer   will   y»t   be   found. 
No  exertion  will  be  spared  to  ferret  him 
out..     The   arm    of  divine   Providence   is 
long  enough   to  reach  him,   even    to  the 
uttermost  bounds  of  the  earth." 

Pred  did  not  speak  or  move.  The  sud- 
denness of  the  shock  seemed  to  have 
completely  stunned  him. 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Gus.  going  over 
and  laying  his  hand  on  Fred's  shoulder, 
"bear  up!  It  is  a  heavy  blow,  and  T  can 
sympathize  with  you;  but  never  despair! 
We  all  knew  and  loved  Edith— we  all  feel 
her.  loss;  but  still,  despair  is  useless. 
Rear  up,  Fred,  and  be  a  man!  I  have 
seen  you  before  now  face  death  at  the 
cannon's  mouth  without  wincing,  and 
will  you  now  sink  under  aflllctlon  like  a 
timid  goirir' 

Fred  looked  up  and  disclosed  a  face  so 
pale  and  eyes  so  despairing  that  Gus  felt 
his  words  were  worse  than  useless. 

He  went  and  took  a  seat  by  the  win- 
dow and  gazed  out.  Pred.  his  face  hid- 
den by  his  hand  and  his  black  locks,  sat 
silent  and  motionless.  And  so  an  hour 
passed  before  either  moved  ojr  spb^e.   ♦ 

T^JS^^jfiound  of  a  carriage  stopping;  be- 
for.»  tjhe  door  at  length  startled  Gus.  He 
looked  up  eagerly,  and  jsrew  a  shade 
paler,  as  he  heard  a  quick,  authoritative 
voli'e  inquire  for  "NTr.  Frederick  Stan-^ 
ley." 

"Step  in  the  parlor,  sir,  if  you  please.! 


*  w.  -  exclaimed  Pred,  sprlng- 
.ng  to  his  feet  and  flercely  shaking  ofl" 
the  officer's  hand,  as  though  stung  by  a 

viper.  n     «jr     a. 

''Such  is  my  painful  duty,  sir." 

"In  the  name  of  Heaven,  sir.  up«>n  what 
charge?  Impetuously  exclrflmed  Fred 
now-  thoroughly  aroused  into  action 

"You  are  arrested  upon  the  charge  of 
having  murdered   Edith   Perclval." 

Fred  reeled  as  though  suddenly  struck 
and  was  forced  to  grasp  the  table  for 
support.  For  a  moment  everything 
seemed  swimming  around  him;  then, 
conscious  that  the  cold,  keen  eyes  of  the 
official  were  fixed  upon  him,  he  recov- 
ered his  usual  stately  firmness,  and  an- 
swered,  with   cold   self-possesHlon. 

"I  am  ready  to  attend  you.  air.  Gus. 
farewell!     Do  you  believe  this  charge'" 

"Heaven  forbid,  Fred!"  said  Gus  in  * 
choking  voice. 

"You  knew,  when  you  came.  I  was 
suspected— did  you  not?" 

"Yes;  but  it  was  so  monstrous,  so  ab- 
surd, I  could  not  tell  you." 

"It  would  have  been  better  if  you  had; 
but  It  matters  not  now.  The  world,  no 
doubt,  believes  me  guilty;  but  what  care 
I  for  the  world  now?  Sir.  I  am  quite 
ready."  .^ 

The  sheriff  bowed,  and  in  his  charge 
Fred  quitted  the  room.  Bidding  adieu 
to  Mrs.  Wilde,  whose  lamentations  were 
loud  and  heartfelt,  he  entered  the  car- 
riage, which  was  driven  immediately  to- 
ward the  county  jail. 

CHAPTER   XXX. 

THE    TRIAL. 

"And  he  for  her  had  also  wept: 

But  for  the  eyes  that  on  him  Razed, 
His  sorrow,  If  he  felt  It.   slept: 

Stern  and  erect  his  brow  was  raised; 
Whate'er  the  grief  his  .soul  avowed. 
He  would  not  shrink  before  the  crowd." 

A  PCRTNiOHT  had  passed  away  since 
the  arrest  of  Fred  Stanley.  The  court 
would  sit  In  another  wrek.  and  his  trial 
was  among  the  first  in  the  session. 

In  his  cell  the  prisoner  sat  alone.  His 
fcice  was  pale  but  firm,  sad  and  com- 
posed. His  long-neglected  locks  fell 
darkly  over  his  lofty  brow,  as  he  sat 
watching  a  fading  aupbeam  that  stole 
through  the  dj;isty,  grated  window.  He 
heard  the  key  turn  In  the  lock;  the  next 


88 


THE    UERMIT   OF    THE    CLIFFH, 


i)j.' 


m 


momem   the  door  open«d   and  Oua  en- 
tered. •';      ^       - 
Prnd    arose    and    extended    ma    hang. 
naylnR,   with  a  sad  BmHe: 

"This.  iH  Indeed  kind,  Ous!  AH  thfi 
rest  of,  th»?  world  seems  to  have  desert- 
ed na^'but  youv"  .    ,' 

"They   believe   you   gutlty,    Fred— I   do 
not.     1   would   have   visited  yon   before, 
hih    circumstances     would    not     perm;:. 
When  docH  your  trial  come  on  ?" 
■  "To-morrow  week."  \-  r 

•i:"You  ha-ve  eng;aar«d  counsel?"     ,        f 
.  "Yes^Mr.  Jolce,  one  of  the  best  law- 
yers In  the  State." 

"That's  well.  Oh,  there's  no  fear  of 
your  acquittal,  Ffed.'  It  seems  Incred- 
ible to  me  how  you  could  ever  have  been 
suspected."*  .    - 

"You  forget  the  clrcumstan^al  .evi- 
dence."- ■  -  >     •  ^.\f.    '■ 

"Nothlng^  but  clrcumstaictlal^ evidence, 
nevertheless,  my  dear  friend."     - 

"'True;  but  much  silghter  has  been 
found  sufficient  to  condemn  a  man  be- 
fore, now." 

"Bnt  It  will  not  In  your  case.  1  feel 
efure  of  it!  It  Is  Impossible,  Pred,  that 
you  ckn  be  convicted!"  exelalmed  Ous, 
impetuously  rising  and  pacing  the  cell. 
.  "Well,  never  mind  that  now.  What's 
the  news  from  the  outer  world?  What 
does  public  opinion  ^ay  of  hie?" 

"Public  opinion'*  a-  fool!" 
?    "In "many   cases   It  Is,    no   doubt;    but 
what  does  It  say  of  me?" 
•    "It  says  you're— guilty." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Fred,  quietly. 
'^Thls  charitable  world  is  always  In- 
(;Ilned  to  look  on  the  worst  possible  side 
of  things.  No  doubt  there  will  be  an 
Immense  crowd  at  the  trial." 
»..  "Oh,  of  course!  you  never  saw  such 
excitement.  Your  family  and  the  Per- 
civals  are  so  highly  connected  nothing 
else  is  talked  of.  People  are  looking 
forward  to  the  trial  with  an  eagerness 
and  anxiety  you  can  have  no  idea  of. 
They  are  crazy  to  get  a  sight  of  you, 
too,  and  you  may  expect  to  endure  a 
pretty  prolonged  stare  from  a  couple  of 
thousand  eyes  on  that  day.  This  exag- 
gerated anxiety  would  be  ludicrous  we're 
ft  not  so  annoying,"  said  Gus,  biting  his 
Hp. 

,*•  Where   are   the    Perclvals    now?"    In- 
quired Fred,  after  a  pause. 

"The  major  and  Nugent  are  In   town 
here;    Mrs.    Percival,    whose   life    Is   de- 
spaired of.   Is  at  hon>e;   and   poor   Nell, 
half  insane  with  grief.  Is  \vlth  her." 
:  "la  my, father  here  yet?" 

A'Yes:  I  saw  him  yesterday,  looking  as 
though  fifty  years  had  lately  been  aidd- 
ed  to  his  age;  but  as  proud  and  haughty 
^  6ver,.  'TIS  said  he  will  wait  until 
after  yoUr  trial,  and  then  leave  for  Bng- 
■land.".- '■■  ,.■■'-  -^.,  .t  -   .  ;-  ■ 

^.  v';t,  auRPQWi.  hift  Jwiftg*9.#'»»e  gvHty^,,  \Of.e 
the  rest  ?'!  .<'        >  '  ^  ~^— ^    -  '  ■ 


■i< 


"No  doubt;  but  when  your  trial  Is 
over,  and  your  Innocence  clearly  proved, 
perhaps  they  will  change  their  tune." 

"It  matters  little."  said  Fred,  "even 
though  I  am  acquitted  public  opinion 
will  still  believe  me  guilty,  and  I  will  be 
Just  as  much  a  murderer  In  the  eycH  of 
the  world  as  though  I  had  ''been  con- 
demned. But  what  do  I  care  for  the 
opinion  of  the  world?"  he  added,  draw- 
ing himself  proudly  up,  while  some  of 
the  old  haughtiness  Hashed  In  his  eyes 
and  crrled  his  Up.  "I  live  In  a  world 
of  my  own,  as  high  above  theirs  as  heav.^ 
en  Is  above  the  earth.  But  you,  dear 
Gus— I  should  be  sorry  to  lose  your  faith 
In  my  Integrity.  How  will  you  be  able 
to  maintain  your,  belief  in  my  Innocence, 
against  such  an  overwhelming;  mass  of 
testimony  as  will  be  brought  against 
me?" 

"Though  all'  the  wdria  should  believe 
you  guilty.  Fred,  I  never  \v\l\,"  replied 
Gus,  firmly. 

"Even  'though  I  should  be  con- 
demned?" 

"Even  though  you  should  be  con- 
demned!" 

"Heaven  bless  you,  my  dear  friend," 
said  Fred,  grasping  hfs  hand,  while  tears 
sprang  In  bis  deep,  dark  eyes. 

"And  now  I  must  leave  you,  Pred," 
said  Gus.  "I  will  see  you  to-morrow 
again.  If  possible.  Meantime,  remember 
the  old  motto:   'Hope  on,  hope  ever.' '/ 

"There  remains  but  little  for  me  to 
hope  for,"  said  Fred,  sadly.  "Hitherto, 
I  have  always  borne  an  unsullied  name, 
but  now,  the  disgrace  of  this  trial  for 
murder  will  cling  to  me  for  life." 

"Nonsense,  Fred!  the  world  Is  not  so 
unjust  'Before  morning  dawns,  night  is 
ever  darkest.'  There  are  bright  days  in 
store  for  you  yet,  believe  me." 

"You  are  unusually  full  of  'wise  saws' 
to-day,  Gus,"  said  Fred,  with  something 
like  the  old  smile  flitting  over  his  hand- 
some face.  "I  shall  wait  Impatiently  for 
your  coming  to-morrow;  for,  shut  In  this 
black  hole,  it  seems  like  a  gllmpi^e  of 
the  outer  world  to  catch  sight  of  you." 

Gus  knocked  at  the  door,  to  be  let  out. 
The  Jailer  opened  It  and  the  yovith  difr 
appeared.  ,    ,       n. 

The  day  of  the  trial  came  at  last.  Even 
at  early  morn  the  streets  were  crowded 
by  the  excited  mob,  anxious  to,  catch  a 
glimpse  of  the  prisoner  when  he  i^hould 
be  led  forth.  Stores  were  (^Iqped.  for 
men  forgot  to  buy  and  sel|,i  in  talking 
over  the  dreadfiil  murder,  and  the  as- 
sassin's probable  fate.  Women  forgot 
their  ordinary  occupation  to  chat  over 
the  merits  and  demerits  of  the  calM€ixtor 
the  prisoner,  being  young»  handteme, 
and  Wghjy  connected,  deeply  Interested 
the'  fair  sex,  E;ven  chlldfjen  forgot  their 
m«^rbl.es..lw»d;  tops  In  jtft0  a|,i-aV»a<>rblhg 
topic,  and  played  at  ''trials,"  and  talked 


trial    |« 

provt'd. 
me." 

"even 
"pJnIon 
wHi  be 
eyt'B  of 
'n  cun- 
foi  the 
draw- 
ome  of 
la  eyea 
World 
s  heuv^ 
u,  dear 
r  faith 
be  able 
oc6nce, 
naM  of 
against 

believe 
replied 

i     con- 


TUB    HEHMIT   OV   THE   CLlFfB. 


of  judges  and  Juriea,  int4ead  of  kites  and 
penknives.  In  Rhort,  nothing  was 
tlioughl  ir  spoken  nf  but  the  one  excit- 
ing BUbJ>  rtr>  the  trial  of  Frederic  Stanley 
on  the'  appalling  charge  of  murder. 

The  doorH  were  at  length  ttirown  open 
-the  crowd  rushed  in  and  the  court- 
loom  was  fllled  to  suffocation.  A  deep, 
low  murmur,  like  the  aurglng  of  the  sea, 
fllled  the  air,  as  the  mighty  crowd 
swayed  to  and  fro.  The  murmur  in- 
creased almost  into  a  rpur  as  the  pris- 
oner, in  the  custody  of  the  sherlft/en- 
lered.  The  dark,  scowling  faces  on  ev- 
ery side  showed  how  deeply  the  mob 
were  prejudiced  against  him,  and  it  was 
with  the  utmost  difticulty  order  could 
he  maintained. 

Fred  entered  with  the  careless  grace 
habitual  to  him — his  fine  head  erect,  his 
keen,  dark  eyes  fixed  calmly  on  the  ex- 
<?ited  crowd.  More  than  one  scowling 
gl'^nce  ^ell  before  his  haughty,  scornful 
eye,  and  the  public  were  forced  to  think 
that  he  looked  far  more  like  some  cap- 
tive prince  than  an  assassin.  If  he  were 
gu.'lty,  he  certainly  betrayed  no  sign 
of  it. 

Taking  his  place  at  the  bar,  Fred 
glanced  again  at  the  crowd  in  the  court- 
room ■  There  sat  Major  Percival,  with  a 
brow  stern  and  dark  as  night,  his  eyes 
t^xed  on  the  prisoner  with  a  look  of  such 
intense  hatred  and  loathing  that  he 
seemed  longing  to  tear  him  limb  from 
limb.  Near  him  sat  Nugent,  his  eyes 
Axed  on  the  crowd,  his  brow  clouded; 
but  there  was  a  look  far  more  of  sorrow 
than  of  anger  in  his  face.  That  he  be- 
lieved lilm  guilty  there  could  be  little 
doubt;  and  for  a  moment,  a  feeling  of 
desimir  weighed  or  the  hieart  of  Fred 
at  the  thought-  "If  Nugent  Percival, 
with  his  open,  generous  nature,  and 
noble  mind,*  believes  me  capable  of  mur- 
der, what  can  I  expect  from  strangers?" 

At  the  opposite  end  of  the  courtroom, 
with  his  arms  folded  across  his  breast, 
his  cloak  thrown  over  his  shoulders,  and 
wrapped  in  his  haughty  pride  as  in  a 
garifnent,  sat  Sir  William  Stanley.  His 
face  was  cold  and  sterh,  his  eye  clear 
and  unpltylng.  his  mouth  Arm  and  rigid. 
Whether  he  believed  in  his  son's  guilt 
or  not,  it  would  be  hard  to  determine. 
Nothing  coufd  be  read  from  his  face;  all 
was  stera  ahd  expressionless  there. 

Again  he  glanced  over  the  crowd. 
Whichever  Way  he  turned,  nothing  met 
his  eyes  hilt  fierce  looks  and  sullfen 
glances.  Those  who  had  been  his  friends 
in  other  days  sat  with  downcast  eyes 
and  averted  faces:  no  kindly  look  was 
t^re;  Not  one  among  all  thatimmense 
CTQwd,  it  called  upon  to  prenp  mce  hi« 
doom,  but  would  nave  shouted  .'Guilty, 
atillty}" 

.  ll«r  fUrned  'a^vay  with  a  feeWiig  of  de- 
8i)a!r  at  his  heart  but  his  otttwatd  -biear- 
ing  waR-boJd,  ujida*nrte*..and.al*n«»t  de- 
fying.   He  glanced  at  the  Bench.    Even 


the  presiding  Judge  seemed  to  have  made 
up  his  mind  as  to  tha  guilt  of  the  pris- 
oner, Judging  by  the  lo«;k  his  face  wore. 

As  for  the  Jury,  little  could  t)e  read 
from  their  blank  faces,  but  more  than 
one  of  them  he  knew  to  be  his  personal 
t  nemles. 

Amid  all  that  assembly  there  was  but 
one  who  in  Ills  heart  believed  in  the 
Innocence  of  the  prisoner.  Ous,  faithful 
to  the  last,  stood  by  his  side,  returning 
every  hiok  of  hatred  directed  toward  his 
friend  with  compound  Interest,  and  en- 
deavoring by  nlH  cheerful  face  and  hope- 
ful glances  to  encourage  him  to  trust 
for  the  best. 

Having  taken  his  place,  the  usual 
charge  was  read,  arraigning  the  prison- 
er for  the  wilful  murder  of  Edith  Per- 
cival, by  stabbing  her  with  a  knife  on 
the  night  of  the  fifth  of  June.  Fred 
listened  with  outward  calmness  to"  the 
charge,  and  when  the  clerk  of  the  court 
asked  the  usual  quesilon,  "Frederic 
Stanley,  how  say  you— are  you  guilty  or 
not  guilty  of  the  felony  with  which  you 
are  charged?"  his  dark  eye  flashed  and 
his  lip  curled,  as  he  answered,  with  cold 
haughtiness: 

"Not  guilty!" 

The  State's  attorney  then  arose,  and 
proceeded  with  his  address.  No  pen  can 
describe  the  emotions  which  his  elo- 
Qiience  and  pathos  produced  In  minds 
ai.  jady  made  up  to  believe  the  prisoner's 
guilt.  To  destroy  any  favorable  Im- 
pression the  well-known  nobleness  and 
generosity  of  the  prisoner  might  have 
made  on  the  minds  of  the  Jury,  he  spoke 
of  the  excesses  to  which  blind  rage  will 
often  excite  even  the  most  tranquil;  of 
his  known  haughtiness  and  flery  tem- 
per, which  could  never  endure  opposi- 
tion. 

He  dwelt  long  and  eloquently  on  each 
trifling  circumstance  that  could  by  any 
possibility  heighten  his  guilt,  until  Gus 
grew  pale  with  apprehension. 

As  he  proceeded  to  state  the  case,  the 
audience  were  wrought  up  to  a  pitch  of 
the  highest  excitement. 

He  stated  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar 
had  conceived  a  passion  for  his  unhappy 
victini,  knowing  ber  to  be  the  betrothed 
of  another;  how  by  his  artful  words  he 
induced  her  to  forget  her  plighted  en- 
gagement, and  turn  her  affections  *  to 
himself;  that  he  had  audaciously  dis- 
closed his  feeKngs  to  the  father,  boast- 
ing of  his  ascendancy  over  her  at  the 
saitie  time;  that,  meeting  with  whaJ;  he 
deserved,  an  indignant  disilntssal,  h(^  had 
departed  in  high  anger;  that  some  tirhfe 
after,  her  former  ;  engagement  bein^ 
broken: by  a  circumstance  not  necessary 
to  mention,  the  prisoner,  on ,  the  evp»- 
'  ing  of  the  murder,  agaih  made  his  ajl- 
peeirah^  in'  the  little  vDlacte,  thinking, 
no  doiybt,  he  was  noW  «ure  of  suceestf; 
tttat  he-was  met  by  the  y'outag  iad!V% 
father,    who   refused    to   permit   him   to 


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23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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THE    EERMIT   OF    THE.  GtlFFB. 

-M ■ ■ ■ 


ll\ 


•    I 


see  her;  that  angry  words  ensued,  and 
the  prisoner  rode  off  in  high  displeasure; 
but,  instead  of  leaving  the  village,  had, 
by  means  of  a  little  boy,  decoyed  his  vic- 
tim to  a  lonely  house,  and  there,  upon 
her  steadily  refusing  to  fly  with  him, 
murdered   her. 

The  prosecuting  attorney  spoke  of  all 
this  at  length,  and  not  with  the  brevity 
with  which  it  is  summed  up  here. 

He  referred  to  the  gentle  and  amiable 
character  of  the  unhappy  young  lady— 
her  beauty,  her  goodness,  and  the  deep, 
trusting  affection  for  himself  with  which 
her  murderer  had  inspired  her.  How  un- 
suspectingly she  had  been  betrayed  into 
meeting  the  unworthy  object  of  her  love, 
and  because  her  sense  of  duty  was 
greater  than  her  affection  for  him,  was, 
as  she  stood  there  with  him,  alone  and 
helplessjr  basely   assassinated. 

So  touching  was  the  picture  he  drew, 
8opathetic-were  his  words,  that  all  the 
women  present  sobbed  convulsively,  and 
even  among  the  men  many  eyes,  all  un- 
used to  the  "melting  mood,"  grew  dim, 
and  flashed  still  more  fiercely  through 
their  tears  on  the  prisoner,  who,  with 
h<s  face  shaded  by  his  hand,  strove  to 
hide  the  agony  he  endured  when  the 
speaker  dwelt  on  the  harrowing  fate  of 
his  beloved  Edith. 

The  State's  attorney  concluded  by  say- 
ing he  would  prove  his  statements  by 
facts— stern,  undeniable  facts — by  com- 
petent and  respectable  witnesses,  whom 
he  would  now  call  in  the  order  in  which 
the  circumstances  they  were  to  prove  oc- 
curred. 

"Major  Percival  will  take  the  stand." 

The  major  advanced,  and,  after  the 
usual  oath,  testified  that  the  prisoner  at 
the  bar  had  conceived  a  passion  for  the 
deceased,  which  she  returned;  that  the 
prisoner  had  boldly  informed  the  witness 
of  it,  and  that  they  had  parted  in  high 
anger.  That  on  the  evening  of  the  mur^ 
der  the  witness  had  accidentally  met  the 
prisoner,  and  accosted  him,  demanding 
his  business  there,  knowing  he  could 
have  come  for  no  good  purpose;  that  the 
prisoner  had  audaciously  told  him  he 
came  to  see  his  daughter  once  more  be- 
fore leaving  tha  country;  that  he  indig- 
nantly bade  him  begone,  and  that  the 
prisoner,  in  a  rage,  had  ridden  off,  and» 
that  he  had  not  seen  him  since  until  to- 
day iat  the  bar. 

Qeing  cross-examined,  he  admitted 
that  at  parting  the  prisoner  had  made 
use  of  no  threats,  and  that  his  own 
words  had  been  angry  and  insulting.  The 
witness  was  then  allowed  to  retire. 

The  next  witness  called  was  Nugent 
Percival. 

He  corroborated  the  testimony  of  his 
father;  further  deposed  that  after  learn- 
ing the  particulars  of  the  murder,  he 
had,  In  company  with  his  fatlier,  visit- 
ed the  spot!  .4;hat  he  had  foun«  a  dog- 
ger, stained,  with  blood,  which  he  knew 


to  be  the  property  of  the  prisoner,  aa  it 
bore  his  name,  and  had  been  the  gift 
of  his  father.  That  he  likewise  discov- 
ered a  portion  of  a  silk  scarf,  which  he 
knew  the  deceasexJ  had  worn  on  the 
night  of  the  murder. 

The  dagger  and  scarf  were  produced, 
and  identified  by  the  witness. 

A  severe  cross-examination  followed, 
but  nothing  more  was  elicited. 

Sir  William  Stanley  was  then  called, 
who,  after  closely  examining  the  dagger; 
pronounced  it  to  be  the  same  he  had 
himself  given  to  his  son. 

Fred  listened  like  one  thunderstruck 
to  this  testimony.  That  the  drgger  was 
his,  there  could  be  no  doubt,  and  he  now 
recollected  having  lost  it  a  short  time, 
previous  to  the  murder;  but  had  trou- 
bled hin;self  little  about  it — never  dream- 
ing it  would  yet  witness  so  fatally: 
against  him  in  a  court  of  justice. 

Gus,  who  had  listened  with  equal  sur- 
prise, now  stooped  down  and  whispered: 

"Bah!  That  proves  nothing.  TJie  mur- 
derer might  have  accidentally  found  it 
or  stolen  it  to  lay  the  blame  on  you." 

The  third  witness  called  was  Edward 
Dillon. 

Master  Eddy  came  up  with  a  swagger, 
evidently  in  the  highest  spirits.  Con- 
vinced that  nothing  could  be  done  to 
him  for  his  share  in  the  transaction, 
and  elated  by  the  reward  promised  him 
if  he  told  the  truth  boldly,  he  was  in  ex- 
cellent humor,  and  delighted  to  find  him- 
self shining  off  before  so  great  a  crowd. 

"Witness,  do  you  understand  the  na- 
ture of  an  oath?"  asked  the  State's  at- 
torney. 

"  Spect  I  do,"  said  Eddy,  seriously. 

"What  is  an  oath?" 

Eddy  laid  his  finger  on  his  nose  in 
deep  meditation;  but,  evidently,  the 
question  was  a  poser.  He*  glanced  ap-- 
pealingly  at  the  judge,  but  that  high 
functionary  was  looking  at  him  thrbiugh 
his  gold-rimnied  spectacles,  with  silent 
but  overwhelming  dignity.  Findiaig'Ho 
help  from  this  quarter,  Eddy  scratched 
his  head  witTi  '^  look  of  intense  per |>lfe«- 
ity.  ■  :-   ■■■^'■\    ■'■■•'■ 

"Witness,  what  is  an  oath?"'solen4hly' 
repeated  his  interlocutor. 

"Well,  if  I  must,  I  must,  though  I 
plaguey  hate  to,"  said  Eddy.  "When 
you  told  the  tailor  day  bief Ore  yester- 
day, when  he  asked  you  for  his  bilK'  to 
'go  to  the  devil/  that  was  an  oath." 

A  roar  of  laughter  from  the  crowd 
followed  this,  while  the  attorney,  who 
was  noted  for  now  and  then  Indulging 
in  profanity,  turned  crimson  with  ragt. 

"Silene6,  sir,  and  answer  to  the  point!" 
he  angrily  exclaimed'.  "Do  you  know 
where  you'll  go  to  when  you  die  if  yojU 
take  a  false  oath?"  ;    '  " 

^'Well.  I  s'pose  I'd  go  Where  they  say 
all  the  had  folks  aina  th6  lav^yets  go.'" 

And  Eddy  gave  his  head  a  peculiar 
jerk,  to  designate  the  ^Ikce  below.'       ' " 


TBE    M^IiillT    OF    the:  CLIFFS. 


n 


I    followed, 


Anolher  snicker  from  the  crowd  fol- 
lowed this j  and," eon vhiced  by  thie  time 
that  Eddy;  realty  did  know  the  nature 
of  an  oath,  the  court  concluded  that  the 
promising  young  gentlemao  should  be 
sworn. 

"Witness,  look  at  the  prfsoner  at  the 
.    bat!" 

Eddy  turned  and  favored  Fred  with 
a  patronizing  nod  and  grin. 

"Now,  witness,  you  have,  seen  the  pris- 
oner.    Do  you  know  him?" 

"Well,  I  can't  ^i^y  that  I  am  parttcu- 
.ularly  acquainted  with  him,"   answered 
Eddy,  gravely.  ' 

"Have  you  ever  seen  him  before?"    , 

"Weil,  now,  I  really  couldit't  say  for 
certain,  you  know.  Think  I  have» 
though." 

"Does  he  look  like  any  one  you  have 
ever  seen?" 

"If  he  had  a  long  cloak  on,  and  a  hat 
pulled  over  his  ^ace,  I  wouldn't  be 
s'prised  if  he  looked  uncommon  like  the 
chap  as  got  ipe  to  go  for  Miss  .Edith." 

"Witness,  on  your  oath  can  you  testify 
tliat  this  is  the  same  person  who  paid 
you  on  the  night  of  •the  murder  to  bring 
the  young  lady  to  the  lone  house  on  the 
Bluff?'* 

"  "Twas  after  night,  and  his  hat  was 
away  down  over  his  face,  and  the  rest 
of  him ,  was  kivered  up  in  a  big  cloak, 
and,  -  not  having  the  eyes  of  a  cat,  I 
couldn't  'stinguish  him  precisely.  He 
was  'bout  the  size  of  that  'ere  prisoner, 
though,  and— yes,  he  had  long  black  hair 
like  him,  too— I  saw  that." 

"Weili  inow;  ten  the  jury  Itll'  that 
paseed  between  you  and  the  murderer 
that  night." 

Interlarding  the  narrative  w4th  many 
explanations  of  his  own,  not  particularly 
lucid,  aihd  many  profound  observations 
on  what  he  thought  and  said  to  "his- 
self,"  which  were  generally  cut  short 
by  the  unceremonious  attorney,  Eddy 
proceeded  with  his  tale,  which  is  too 
well  known  to  need  repetition  here. 

When  he  came  to  the  meeting  where 
Editii  addressed  her  murderer  as  "Fred," 
the  prisoner  lifted  his  head  and  gazed 
upon  the  boy  with  a  look  of  utter  amaze- 
ment. That  he  was  telling  the  truth 
there  eould  be  no  doubt,  for  there  wa» 
an  unmistakable  look  of  honesty  and 
candor  on  his  face. 

Eddy  was  severely  cross-examined  by 
):he  counsel  for  the  defense,  but  all  his 
answers  were  plain  and  straightforward, 
and  to  the  point.  At  length,  thoroughly 
exasperated  by  this  raking  fire  of  cross- 
cjuestions,  he  indignantly  and  stoutly,  rfi- 
fused  to  answer  a  single  question  more. 
And,^  amid  the  laughter  of  the  audi- 
ence, Master  Eddy  was  pernrvitted  to 
sit  down.- 

The  girl  Betty  was  then  called,  who 
corroborated  the  evidence  of  Eddy,  as 
far  as  coming  foi;  the  deceased  was  con- 
cerned, and  further  identified  the  scarf 


f«;,*»"e  the  deceased  he*  vvopn>«n'-le«V^^ 
iHg  home;  ,-  =-  .      ,<      ..,„;",. 

The  landlord  of  the  inn  was  the  next 
.witness  summoned,  who  deposed  thaA  a 
stranger,  answering,,  to  the  descrif^tibn 
given  of  the  murderer,  had  engaged  a 
room  In  his  house  for  the  night;  that 
half  an  hour  previous  to-  the  murdter  he 
had   hastily   left  the   house   and  turned. 

Ru,£*^  ^u^**^?"*  **^  **^«  ^^^  »^0"8e  on  the 
i^luff;  that  he  had  returned  ip.  great 
haste,  and  evidently  much;  excited,  and 
drank  a  great  deal  of  brandy;  that  upon 
the  alarm  of  fire  being  given  he  had  has- 
tened out  with  the  rest  and  that  his  al- 
most frantic  actions  ba4  excited  the 
wonder  of  several;  that  after  the  fire  he 
(the  witness)  had  hastened  home;  that 
he  observed  the  assassin  plunge  into  the 
woods  and  return  to  his  house  no  more. 
J3elng  cross-examined,  he  could  not  swear 
positively  that  the  prisoner  at  the  bar 
and  the  murderer  were  one  and  the 
same  person,  as  he  had  not,  during  the 
night,  procured  a  good  view  of  his  face; 
but  he  thought  they  were  the  same— 
their  height  was  alike,  the  color  of  their 
hair,  etc.  .       r  - 

_  Several  other  witnesses  were  exam- 
ined, but  nothing  more  of  importance 
was  elicited,  and  the  court  was  shortly 
after  adjourned  until  the  following  day. 

-On  the  second  day  of  the  great  trial, 
the  crowd  was  even  greater  thap  be- 
fore—all eager  to  hear  the  fate  of  the 
prisoner.  Every  eye  was  turned  upon 
him  as  he  entered.  Pale,  but  firm,  his 
^agle  eye  met  the  gaze  of  that  crowd, 
all  anxH)us  for  his  condemnation,  with- 
out flinching,  and,  taking  his  seat,  he 
lifted  his  princely  head  and  fixed  hjs 
dark  eyes  on  the  Bench  as  calmly  as 
though  the  men  before  him  held  not  his 
life  in  their  hands. 

When  the  last  witness  for  the  prosecu- 
tion had  been  examined,  the  defense  was 
taken  up  and  conducted  with  great  skill 
and  eloquence  by  the  counsel  for  the 
prisoner.  He  spoke  at  length  upon  the 
high  character  his  client  had  always 
inaintaiiied,  and  eiilai ged  on  every  ]b6lnt' 
that  could  possibly  be  in  his  favor.  It 
was  evident,  however,  his  words  made  ' 
but  little  impression  on  the  minds  of  the 
jury.  • 

The  counsel  for  the  pi-osecution  then 
arose,  and  summed  up  the  testimony 
against  the  prisoner  in  one  mighty, 
crushing  mass  of  evidence.  When  the 
judge  Siood  up  to  charge  the  Jury,-  the 
silence  of  that  mighty  crowd  was  so 
deep  that  It  might  almost  be  felt.  It  was 
quite  evident  that  In  his  mind  there 
existed  no  doubt  of  the  prisoner's  guilt, 
and  though  he  urged  the  jury  to  delib- 
erate calmly  upon  the  evidence,  every 
one  present  ft- It  that  the  prigoher's  doom 
wias  sealedf^       . 

The  jury  withdrew  to  deliberate,  and 
the  silei>ce  of  that  mighty  crowd  waa  so 
profeuQd  and  ominous  that  it  was  pain- 


92 


THE   HERMIT    OF   THE   GLIFFB. 


ful  to  experience.  Every  eye  was  di- 
rected toward  the  prisoner,  who,  with 
his  stately  head  erect,  his  proud,  hand- 
some face  as  cold  and  firni  as  marble. 
l)etrayed  no  sign  of  his  feelings  within. 
Gus.  noble,  true-hearted  Gus.  still  stood 
faithfully  by  his  side,  his  only  remain- 
ing friend,  and  looking  fierce  defiance  at 
c-ery   scowling   glance   directed    toward 

Fred 

\nd  What  were  the  feelings  of  those 
who  in  other  days  had  stood  by  him, 
during  those  awful  moments  of  sus- 
pense'' Sir  William  Stanley,  as  stern 
and  grim  as  death  itself,  sat  with  his 
lips  compressed,  his  stony  eyes  fixed  on 
the  floor,  his  iron  face  expressing  no 
emotion  whatever.  Major  Percival  sat, 
deadly  pale,  but  with  the  old  look  of 
mingled  hatred  and  triumph  on  his  face. 
Nugent's  head  was  bowed  on  his  hand, 
his  face  hidden  by  his  falling  hair. 

Presently  the  jury  re-entered.  The 
foreman  arose,  and  announced  that  their 
verdict  was  ready.  One  look  at  their 
sad,  stern  faces,  and  every  heart  stood 
still,  knowing  wen  what  was  to  come. 

The  judge  arose. 

"Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  how  say  you, 
is  the  prisoner  at  the  bar  guilty  or  not 
guilty?" 

"Not  guilty!"  cried  the  clear,  excited 
voice  of  a  female,  and.  forcing  her  wa,y 
through  the  crowd  that  fell  back  in 
mingled  fear  and  amazement,  a  young 
girl  stood  before  the  bench. 

Throwing  back  the  veil  that  hid  her 
face,  the  newcomer  turned'  slowly  round 
and  the  wonder-struck  spectators  beheld 
the  pale  but  beautiful  Edith  Percival. 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

EDITH'S  STORY. 

"Then  think  of  this  maxim,  and  cast  away 
sorrow, 

The  wretched  to-day  may  be  happy  to- 
morrow!"' 

For  a  moment  the  profound  silence  of 
intense  amazement  held  every  tongue 
speechless,  every  voice  silent,  and  the 
dense  crowd  stood  motionless,  spell- 
bound! And  then  "Edith!  Edith! 
Edith  Percival!"  rang  out  like  the  roar 
of  the  sf.a. 

The  ei'.citement  and  uproar  were  fear- 
ful; the  judge  sat  transfixed;  the  jury 
gazed  on  her  with  mouths  and  eyes 
agape;  the  crowd  reeled  and  swayed 
to  see  one  who  seemed  to  have  risen 
from  the  grave  to  vindicate  the  prison- 
er; the  clerk  of  the  court  forgot  to  cry 
silence,  and  stood  staring  in  speechless 
astonishment,  like  the  rfest. 

And  Fred— the  sudden  revulsion  of 
feeling,  the  unexpectfri  sight  of  one  he 
imagined  in  heaven,  cam^  so.  stunningly 
upon  him,  that,  for  a  moment,  the  sight 
left  his  eyes,  his  senses  reeled,  and  he 
leaned  jiis  head  upon  the  railing,  feeltng 


as  though  he  shoulf  faint.  It  was  but 
for  an  instant — then  all  his  wopderful 
power  of  self-control  came  back,  and  he 
lifted  his  head — almost  fearing  what  he 
had  seen  and  heard  was  but  a  delusion, 
a  dream.  But  no.;  there  stood  Edith 
alive,  lovely  and  radiant  as  when  he  first 
beheld  her — her  soft  blue  eyes  beaming 
upon  him.  with  such  a  look  of  deep,  un- 
utterable love. 

With  a  passionate  exclamation,  Major . 
Percival  arose  to  his  feet,  and  would 
have  sprung  toward  his  daughter,  but 
as  ^well  might  he  have  endeavored  to. 
force  his  way  through  a  wall  of  iron 
as  through  that  madly  excited  crowd. 
Nugent  perceived  how  vain  would  be 
the  effort,  and,  although  almost  delirious 
himself  with  overwhelming  emotion,  he 
strove  to  keep  him  back  from  the  crush- 
ing throng  of  human  beings. 

But  high  above  all  the  noise  and  up- 
roar that  filled  the  court-house,  there 
arose  a  cry,  a  cry  so  full  of  unspeakable 
horror  and  despair  that  every  heart  stood 
still.  AH  eyes  were  turned  in  the  di- 
rection from  whence  It  came,  and  there 
before  them,  like  a  galvanized  corpse, 
stood  Ralph  De  Lisle.  Okil  such  a  ghast- 
ly face,  such  livid  lips  flecked  with 
blood  and  foam,  such  wild,  despairing, 
horror-struck  eyes!  Every  face  blanched 
with  a  deep,  unspeakable  awe  as  they 
gazed. 

"Sheriff.  I  command  you  to  arrest 
Ralph  0e  Lisle,  on  charge  of  attempting 
the  nurder  of  Edith  Percival,"  called  a 
calm,  r*ommanding  voice,  that  sounded 
strangely  clear  and  cool  amid-  all  thai 
wild  storm  of  passion  and  excitement, 
and,  waving  his  arm  to  where  stood  the 
consclence-strickert  man,  tyie  Hermit  of 
the  Cliffs  turned  toward  the  Bench. 
■  "Never!"  shouted  De  Lisle,  fiercely- 
all  his  presence  of  mind  returning  with 
the  imminence  of  his  danger,  as  he 
struggled  madly  to  force  his  way 
through  the  waving  sea  of  beings  be- 
tween him  and  the  door. 

But  he  struggled  in  vain.  The,  strong 
hand  of  the' officer  grasped  his  colleti*  in 
a  grip  of  iron. 

"Dog  of  a  sheriff!  release  me!"  he 
cried,  foaming  with  rage,  and  endeavor- 
ing to  wrench  himself  from  his  powerful 
grasp. 

Half  a  dozen  willing  hands  were  raised 
to  aid  the  oflficer,  when  De  Lisle,  seeing 
all  hope  was  past,  with  the  rapidity  of 
lightning  drew  a  pistol  and  leveled  it 
at  Edith.  She  stood  white  and  motion- 
less, unable  to  move,  while  a  low  cry  of 
horror  arose  from  the  spectators.  But 
his  murderous  object  failed ;  for,  as  quick 
as  thought,  his  arm  was  struck  upward, 
while  the  nlstni  fpii  to  the  ground  and 
went  off.  A  shriek  of  pain  followed,  and 
a  boy  was  raised  from  the  floor  bleed- 
ing, and  carried  out— the  ball  having 
lodared  in  his  .ankle. 
This 'did  not  tend  to  allay  the  feelings 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    VLIFFH. 


93 


e  feelings 


of  the  mob,  who  turned  upon  De  Lisle 
and  would  have  torn  him  In  pieces  but 
for  the  interference  of  the  officers.  His 
arms,  after  a  desperate  resistance,  were 
pinioned  firmly  behind  his  back;  and, 
still  struggling  like  a  madman,  he  was 
borne  to  a  place  of  safety. 

With  the  utmost  difficulty,  peace  was 
at  length  restored,  and  Edith  was  com- 
manded to  tell  her  story;  and  then  the 
deepest  silence  followed  where  a  moment 
before  all  had  been  fierce  noise  and  wild 
uproar,  and  all  ears  were  bent  and  necks 
strained  to  catch  each  word  that  fell 
from  her  lips.  But  Edith  was  so  weak 
and  faint  from  excitement  that  her  voice 
was  inarticulate,  A  chair  was  brought 
fo^-  her,  and  a  glass  of  water  presented 
by  Gus.  who,  poor,  faithful  fellow, 
scarcely  knew  whether  he  ought  to 
laugh  or  cry,  and  consequently  did 
neither;  and  then,  revived,  Edith  turned 
to  the  Bench  and  began: 

"I  presume  all  here  present  know  most 
of  tht  events  of  that  night.  Oh,  that 
dreadful  night!  I  cannot  6ven  now 
think  of  it  without  a  shudder. 

"Thinking  I  was  to  visit  his  sister,  I 
accompanied  the  boy,  Eddy  Dillon,  from 
home.  Forming  some  excuse,  he  per- 
suaded me  to  go  with  him  to  the  old 
house  on  the  Bluff.  Ae  we  ascended  the 
hill  the  figure  of  a  man  wrapped  in  a 
cloak — his  face  hidden  by  his  hat — 
stepped  from  the  old  house  and  stood  be- 
fore us.  I  imagined  it  to  be  Frederic 
Stanley,  who  that  evening  had  been  in 
the  village;  and,  thinking  he  had  em- 
ployed the  boy  to  lead  me  there  for  a 
clandestine  interview.  I  addressed  him 
by  his  name.  He  did  not  reply,  but  said 
something  in  a*  whisper  to  Eddy,  who 
immediately  ran  away.  Still  thinking  it 
was  Fred,  I  followed  him  into  the  old 
house,  and  again  called  him  by  his 
name.  Still  he  w^as  silent.  I  grew 
alarmed;  when  he  dropped  his  cloak, 
and  raised  his  hat,  I  saw  before  me  my 
.»nortal   enemy — Ralph   De  Lisle!" 

Edith  shuddered,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands  as  memory  conjured  up 
that  almost  fatal  night. 

"I  was  so  shocked,  so  startled,  so  ter- 
ror stricken,  that  for  a  moment  I  almost 
fainted.  T  scarcely  know  how  I  rallied, 
but  I  was  inspired  by  sudden  courage, 
and  stood  fearlessly  before  him.  He 
urged  me  to  fly  with  him  or  die.  Death 
was  preferable  to  life  with  him,  and  I 
refused.  Blinded,  nnaddened  by  my  re- 
fusal, he  drew  a  dagger  and  plunged  it 
into  my  side.  Dimly,  as  one  remembers 
a  frightful  dream,  I  recollect  falling  to 
the  ground;  then  I  drew  out  the  knife, 
and  then  all  grew  dark,  and,  with- a  dull, 
roaring  st)und  as  of  many  waters  in  my 
ears,  memory  and  life  were  alike  for  a 
time  lost  in  oblivion. 

"When  I  again  opened,  my  eyes  I  found 
myself  lying  in  the  little  cottage  among 


the  cliffs,  occupied  by  the  aged  hermit. 
For  days  I  hovered  between  death  and 
life,  and,  with  a  care  for  which  I  can 
never  be  sufficiently  grateful,  the  hermit 
watched  over  me  night  and  day.  He 
scarcely  ever  left  me,  even  for  his  nec- 
essary repose;  and,  :  ^ing  to  his  care,  I 
slowiv  recovered.  He  said  it  would  be 
dangeious  to  remove  me  home,  and  I 
was  too  weak  and  powerless  to  care 
where  I  was.  As  he  never  went  out,  we 
heard  nothing  of  what  was  transpiring 
in  the  outer  world,  until  yesterday,  yield- 
ing to  my  entreaties,  he  went  to  inform 
my  parents  that  I  was  still  alive.  The 
first  person  he  met  related  the  arrest  of 
Mr.  Stanley,  and  informed  him  that  he 
was  to  be  tried  for  murdering  me,  to- 
day. With  almost  frantic  haste  he 
tuined  home  and  told  me  all;  and, 
scarcely  pausing  to  make  the  necessary 
arrangements,  we  started  for  this  place, 
and,  thank  Heaven!  we  have  arrived  in 
time  to  vindicate  the  Innocence  of  Fred- 
eric Stanley," 

Edith  paused  and  glanced  with  a  look 
of  unchangeable  affection  toward  the 
spot  where  Fred  sat — his  face  alternate- 
ly flushing  and  paling  with  powerful 
emotion.  There  was  a  moment's  dead 
silence,  and  then  a  cheer  that  made  the 
old  court-house  ring  came  from  every 
excited  'heart.  Yes,  in  that  moment  a 
complete  revulsion  of  feeling  took  place 
in  every  breast,  Fred's  triumph  was 
complete;  and,  with  its  usual  impulsive 
considerateness,  the  mob  as  heartily  re- 
joiced in  his  innocence,  as,  a  few  mo- 
ments previously,  they  had  done  in  his 
guilt. 

"But  how  were  you  rescued?"  said  the 
judge,  partaking  of  the  universal  ex- 
citement.    "This  blank  in  your  story" — 

"Can  be  filled  by  me,"  interrupted  the 
hermit,  stepping  forward.  "On  the  night 
in  question,  passing  accidentally— or 
rather  by  a  dispensation  of  Providence 
which  men  call  chance — near  the  Bluff, 
I  beheld,  to  my  surprise,  a  sudden  jet  of 
flame  shoot  up  from  a  pile  of  rubbish. 
Anxious  to  know  the  cause,  I  hastened 
up  and  entered  the  old  barn.  All  was 
deserted  and  dreary  around;  and  I  was 
about  to  quit  it  and  give  the  alarm 
when  my  eyes  fell  on  an  object  lying  at 
my  feet  that  almost  transfixed  me  with 
horror — that  froze  the  very  blood  in  my 
veins.  iThere,  lying  cold  and  lifeless, 
bathed  In  blood,  lay  Edith  Percival.  In 
a  moment  the  whole  truth  burst  upon 
me.  She  had  been  murdered  there,  and 
the  assassin  had  set  Are  to*  the  house 
to  conceal  the  evidence  of  his  crime. 
Should  I  leave  her  to  perish  in  the 
flames?  No;  not  if  I  died  with  her.  An 
almost  superhuman  strength  seemed  to 
inspire  me.  I  raised  her  lifeless  form 
in  my  arms  as  though  she  had  been  an 
infant,  and  turned  in  the  direction  of 
the  cliffs.     At  any  other  time  the  feat 


M 


THE   HERMIT   OF    THE   CUFFS. 


ii  ! 


WQuld  ;have  been  Impossible;  but  a 
strenirth  not  my  own  seemed  suddenly 
■  to  have  'been  granted  to  me,  and  ere 
rriornlrtg  dawned  we  had  reached  my  lit- 
tle cottage  in  safety. 

I  had  imagined  her  dead;  but,  to  my 
surprise  and  joy,  I  soon  discovered  signs 
of  Mfe.  Having  a  little  knowledge  of 
surgery,  I  examined  the  wound,  and  dis- 
covered that,  though  dangerous,  it  was 
far  from  being  mortal.  I  applied  such 
rerifiedies  as  I  knew  to  be  good  in  such 
a  case,  and,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days, 
she  began  to  recover.  I  did  not  wish  to 
tell  her  friends,  knowing  they  -would  dis- 
turb her  with  visits,  and  perhaps  insist 
on  having  her  removed— a  proceeding 
which  I  knew  would  be  highly  danger- 
ous. The  world  callff  me  odd  and  eccen- 
tric—perhaps this  was  oue  of  my  eccen- 
tricities; beside,  I  wished  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  returning  tc  her  family  her 
whom  they  Imagined  dead.  It  never  oc- 
curred to  me  that  any  one  but  the  real 
murderer  would  be  arrested.  Judge, 
therefore,  of  my  surprise,  when  the  first 
time  I  left  home  I  learned  that  Frederic 
Stanley  had  been  arrested,  and  was 
about  to  be  tried  for  her  murder.  I  lost 
no  time  in  hastening  here — and  here  I 
am."  • 

And  then  such  another  shout  as  rent 
the  air! — the  crowd  seemed  to  have  gone 
wild.  Then  the  court  was  adjourned,  and 
the  prisoner  discharged;  and  Edith  went 
over  and  laid  her  hand  in  his,  and  looked 
up  in  his  face  with  her  love-beaming 
eyes. 

The  friends  of  Fred  were  now  pressing 
around,  to  shake  hands  and  congratu- 
late him  On  his  triumphant  vindication. 
And  first  among  them  came  Gus,  with 
"a  smile  on  his  lips. and  a  tear  in  his 
eye,"  and  who  shook  Fred's  hand  until 
it  ached,  and  who  squeezed  Edith's  lit- 
tle hand  until  her  fingers  tingled.  Then 
wary /was  made  for  Major  Percival  and 
hiei  son,  the  dense  crowd  opening  right 
B,tid  left  tc  allow  tliem  to  pass.  Their 
meeting  was  not  a  very  demonstrative 
one— it  could  not  be  in  that  crowded 
courtroom;  but  it  was  none  the  less 
heartfelt  and  deep  for  th*it. 
,  "And  Fred,  papa?"  sa.id  Edith,  gently. 

The  face  of  the  major  grev/^  red  with 
a  flush  of  honest  shame  and  embarrass- 
ment, as  he  held  out  his  hand.  For  a 
nMiment  Fred  hesitated;  all  hUs  pride 
rose,  as  he  recollected  the  many  indigni- 
ties he  had  received  from  the  man  be- 
fore him.  Edith  saw  the  struggle  in  his 
mind,  and,*  laying  her  hand  on  his  arm, 
apd  lifting  her  soft,  reproachful  eyes  to 
his  face,  she  said: 

"Dear  Fred!" 

He  Qould  not  resist  that  witching 
glaiice.  The  next  moment  his  hand 
grasped  that  of  tixe  major  in  the  warm 
clasp  of  friendship. 

"And  thus  do  I  atone  for  the  pa'st," 


3aid,    the    major,    placing    the    hand    of 
Edith  in  that  of  Fred. 

Ih  that  moment  the  past — all  its 
wrongs,  and  sorrows,  and  sufferings- 
was  forgotten.  That  instant  of  bliss 
more  than  compensated  him  for  the 
troubled,  stormy  past. 

There  was  one  other  whose  eyes  fell 
on  that  scefte.  Ralph  De  Lisle,  pinioned 
like  a  malefactor,  and  led  out  between 
two  officers,  saw  it  as  he  passed.  He 
gnashed  his  teeth  in  impotent  rage;  and 
his  eyes,  in  their  frenzied  despair, 
glared  upon  them  like  the  burning  orbs 
of  a  tiger;  Such  a  look  of  undying  hate 
and  fierce  anguish  Lucifer  might  have 
worn  when  cast  from  heaven.  His  livid 
lips  opened  to  heap  curses  upon  them, 
but  words  refused  to  come.  His  face 
grew  black  and  convulsed — his  oyes 
turned  in  their  sockets— he  reeled,  and 
would  have  fallen  to  the  ground,  had  nut 
the  otficefs  supported  him  in  their  arms. 

As  they  raised  him  frpm  the  ground,  a 
dark  stream  of  blood  flowed  from  his 
mouth.  In  his  agony  of  rage  and  de- 
spair, he  had  ruptured  a  blood  vessel. 

They  bore  him  off  to  prison,  while  the 
spectators  gazed  on  horror-struck.  Faint 
and  sick,  Edith  hid  her  face  on  her 
brother's  shoulder    with  a  shudder. 

"Let  us  go,"  .said  Nugent,  turning 
away,  pale  with  horror,  as  he  passed  his 
arm  around  his  sister's  waist,  to  lead 
her  from  the  room. 

"You  will  accompany  us,  of  course?" 
said  the  major,  in  an  imperative  tone 
to  Fred,  who  glanced  at  Edith,  and 
bowed,  with  a  smile.  "And  you,  too," 
added  the  major,  turning  to  the  hermit, 
whose  eyes  were  fixed,  as  if  fascinated, 
on  Sir  William  Stanley,  as,  borne  along 
by  the  swaying  rush,  he  was  approach- 
ing them.  ,    " 

"No,"  said  the  hermit,  gravely;  "my 
task  is  ended,  and  I  must  return  home." 

"Oh,  pray,  come  with  us,*'  said  Edith,   | 
eagerly;    "you  will   be   much   happier,  I 
am   sure,    than   living   all   alone   among 
those  dreary  cliffs." 

But  the  hermit  only  shook  his  head, 
and  steadily  refused. 

Finding  entreaties  vain,  they  turned  to 
go  out,  when,  unable  to  extricate  him- 
self from  the  crowd,  Sir  William  Stan- 
ley stood  directly  beside  them.  All 
paused  in  momentary  expectation. 
Fred's  cheek  fiushed  and  his  heart 
throbbed  as  he  caught  his  father's  eye. 
He  would  have  held  out  his  hand,  but 
the  baronet's  stem  look  forbade  It.  Lift- 
ing his  hat  to  Edith,  he  bowed  coldly  to 
the  rest,  and  passed  on,  with  the  same 
look  of  Iron  inflexibility  hds  hard  face 
alway»  wore.  Suddenly  his  eye  fell  on 
the  hermit,  who  was  half  hidden  behind 
the  tall  figure  of  Fred.  He  gave  a  sud- 
den start,  as  though  he  had  received  a 
galvanic  shock-yhis  face  grew  deadly 
-vrhite,  and  then  deepest  crinison,  as  he 


THE    HERMIT    OF    THE    CLIFEH. 


95 


plunged  into  the  crowd  and  disappeared. 
A  carriage  was  in  waiting  to  convey 
the  party  to  Percival  Hall.  The  hermit, 
in  spite  of  their  united  entreaties,  per- 
sisted in  refusing  to  accompany  them, 
and  at  the  door  bade  them  farewell.  The 
major,  Edith,  Nugent,  Fred  and  Gub 
therefore  entered  and  were  soon  on  their 
way  home.  They  traveled  slowly,  for 
Edith  was  still  weak,  and  the  next  day, 
about  noon,  they  arrived  at  the  Hall. 
Who  can  describe  the  meeting  that  there 
ensued?  Joy  seldom  kills;  and  though 
ttie  shock  nearly  extinguished  the  slight 
spark  oi  life  that  yet  lingered  in  the 
breast  of  Mrs.  Percival,  she  slowly  be- 
gan to  recover.  As  for 'Nell,  her  first  im- 
pulse was  to  embrace  every  one  present, 
which  she  accordingly  did,  to  the  great 
disgust  ol  Gus— who  wouid  have  been 
inlinitely  better  pleased  to  have  received 
them  all  himself.  That  young  lady  re- 
mained quite  serious  for  a  day  or  two, 
but  after  that  she  became  the  same  in- 
corrigible she  had  been  beforef  And 
Ous,  'Jriven  to  desperation,  declared 
that,  of  all  thP  trials  his  friend  had  been 
afflicted  with  he  had  never  to  endure 
so  severe  a  trial  ad  Nell  Percival. 


CHAPTER  XXXn. 

"THE    WAGES    OF    SIN    IS    DEATH.'' 

"Burning  heart   and   beating    brow         i 
Ye  are  very  quiet  now  " 

—  E3.  B.  Browning 

It  wfts-night,  dark,  chill  and  dismal, 
The  rain  pattered  with  spectral  fingers 
against  the  grated  windows,  the  wintl 
moaned  and  wailed  drearily  without. 

In  his  cold,  flreless  cell,  sat  the  once 
gay  and  handsome  Ralph  De  Lisle.  Dark 
and  wild  was  the  storm  without,  and 
darker  and  wilder  was  the  heart  within 
his  bosom,  ,  His  face  v.'as  blanched  to 
the  hue  of  death,  and  looked  still  whiter, 
contrasted  with  his  heavy  black  locks. 
He  wias  half  reclining  on  his  wretched 
bed— lying  so  still,  so  motionless,  that 
(me  Alight  have  thought  him  dead,  but 
tor  the  fierce  living  light  blazing  in  his 
^vild  black  eye^. 

It  was  wonderful  how  he  could  lie 
there  s6  immavabie,  with  such  a  fire  in 
his  heart;  the  burning  fire  of  remorse. 
All  his  life  seemed  passing  in  review 
liefore  him,  and  he  alniost  shuddered  to 
himself,  so  young  in  years,  yet  so  old 
in  Clime.  His  part  in  the  drama  of  life 
was  over;  and  the  world  would  go  round 
as  though  he  had  never  existed.  He  felt 
like  a  man  who  has  staked  his  all  on 
the  gaming-table,  and  lost.  The  world 
had  beeti  to  him  a  chessboard,  and  men 
and  women  had  moved  as  he  willed;  but 
an  unseen  though  powerful  hand  had 
t>een  plftying  against  him;  another  had 
won,  and  Ralph  De  .Lisle  was  check- 
mated in  the  great  game  of  life. 

Like    gome    dark    panoriiJ|ia,    all    the 


events  uf  his  life  were  still  passing  be- 
fore him.  He  thought  of  the  past— of 
his  boyhood  with  all  it.s  bright  prom- 
ises, high  hopes,  and  glorious  delusions. 
How  easy  ail  those  noble  projects 
seemed  of  realization  then,  but,  like  the 
mirage  of  the  desert,  one  by  one  they 
had  faded  away  at  his  approach.  His 
radiant  day-dreams  had  all  set  in  a  sea 
of  blood  and  crime,  and  he  had  gone 
down,  down,  in  his  rapid  career  of  crime, 
not  daring  to  look  liack  at  the  height 
from  which  he  had  fallen.  And  then 
came  his  visions  of  that  bright  land  of 
light  and  roses  where  Edith  reigned 
queen,  and  once  more  he  seemed  wan- 
dering with  her  through  the  dim  aisles 
of  the  grand  old  wood,  and  watching, 
with  his  old  feeling  of  adoration,  the  • 
gulden  sunlight  falling  on  her  flowing 
hair.  His  prison  walls  stretched  away, 
and  he  saw  himself  standing  in  the  lofty 
rooms  of  Percival  Hall,  with  Edith 
blushing  and  smiling  beside  him.  his  be- 
trothed bride.  He  saw  her  so  vividly  be- 
fore him  with  her  sunny  smile,  and  her 
blue,  love-beaming  eyes  sinking  beneath 
his,  that  the  almost  forgotten  lov6  of 
other  days  C3me  back,  and  with  the  ir- 
repressible cry,  "Oh.  Edith!  my  hope! 
my  dream!  my  life!"  he  stretched  out 
his  arms,  almost  expecting  to  enfold  the 
radiant  vision  before  him.  It  faded 
away  in  thin  air,  and  he  awoke  with  a 
start  from  the  tiance  into  which  he  was 
falling 

The  past  was  gone;  he  could  think  of 
it  no  longer.  And  the  present!  Could 
this  be  he,  Ralph  De  Lisle,  the  high- 
born, the  haughty— this  convicted  felon? 
Had  all  his  daiing  projects,  his  bold 
schemes,  from  which  less  reckless  minds 
would  have  shrunk — all  his  fearless 
deeds,  come  to  this  at  last?  He  had 
trampled  the  solemn  commands  of  God 
and  the  slavish  laws  of  men  alike  under 
his  feet;  he  had  committed  crimes  that 
no  other  would  have  dared  to  contem- 
plate, until  he  had  begun  to  fancy  him- 
self above  punishment.  He  had  gone  on 
so  long  in  his  reckless  career  of  crime 
with  impunity,  that  he  ha,d  forgotten  a 
day  of  reckoning  must  yet  come;  now 
he  realized  it  at  length.  He  could  have 
made  his  escape  after  the  diabolical 
crime  had  been  perpetrated,  but  some 
power  within  chained  him  to  the  spot. 
He  felt  sure  Fred  Stanley  would  be  con- 
victed, and  then  his  triumph  would  be 
complete.  After  the  execution  of  hfs 
rival,  his  intention  was  to  return  to  En^- 
land,  and  in  God-forgetting  London  lost- 
the  recollection  of  the  past.  But  all  his 
projects  had  fallen  to  the  ground  with 
a  crash;  she  whom  he  imagined  dead 
was  clasped  in  the  arms  of  his  hated 
foe,  and  her  stem  father  smiled  on  their- 
union ;  a  life  of  happiness  was  before 
them — and  he  was  here. 

What  had  the  future  in  store  for:  him? 
His  trial  was  soon  to  come,  and  he  Saw 


I 


*v  .# 


96 


THE    HERMIT   Of    THE    GLIFF». 


4 


'aV\ 


\% 


the  eyes  of  the  crowd  fixed  upon  him 
In  hatred  and  derision.  They  whom  if 
at  liberty  he  would  have  spurned  under. 
hi«  feet,  could  now  point  to  him  In  acorn 
as  the  foiled  aasassin.  If  the  law  found 
him  guilty  and  he  was  condemned— he 
.  shuddered  as  the  gallows  and  all  the 
fearful  paraphernaMa  of  a  felon's  death 
rose  before  him.  Vh<^  maddened  crowd, 
glaring  at  him  with  their  savage  eyes, 
and  ready  to  tear  him  limb  from  limb 
as  they  attempted  to  do  in  the  court- 
house. And  hia  rival,  his  mortal  enemy, 
would  be  there  to  i&xvilt  over  his  ig- 
nominious death. 

But  his  life  might  be  saved!  True,  he 
was  as  much  si  murderer  as  though  his 
victim  had  perished  In  the  burning 
tiouse;  but  the  law  mijrht  not  find  him 
fed.  And  if  he  was  spared,  what  then? 
A  long  lift  Lime  of  drudgery  among  fel? 
ons,  the  lowest  of  the  low,  until  death 
would  place  him  in  the  convict's  de- 
spised   grave! 

Those  hands,  small  and  white  as  a  wo- 
man's, must -grow,  hard  and  coarse  with 
unceasing  toll;   and   he,   De   Lisle,   born 
to   v?eaith   and   honor,    mvist   herd   with 
thieves  and  murderers  for  the  remainder 
of  his  life*    The  picture  grew  too  horrible 
to  be  longer  endured.     He  sprang  from 
his  bed,   with  the  perspiration  standing 
in  great  beaded  drops  on  hia  brow — his 
hand  clenched  until  the  nails  «ank  into 
the  quivering   flesh— his   eyes    bloodsliot 
and  glaring— ^an  expression  of  horror  un- 
uittefable  on   his  ghastly  face!     Oh,   ii) 
that  moment,  how  fearful  'vas  the  mad- 
-denJhg   storm   of   paBsiOn   in    hia   guilty 
heart!  ~A.-ltf€tinie  of  agony  seemed  con- 
centrated into -each  second  as.  It  passed; 
the  blb<?»d   seemed   to   pour   like  molteh. 
lead  tftTough  every  vein,  a  wheel  of  .fire 
seemed- oraishing  through  his  btailn}  his 
vety  ejres  seemed  like  red-hot  halls  of 
fire.'    '  ■'  ■■        •  '  ■"■• 
He  strode  4ip  and  down  like  a  maniac, 
i  and,  apringhifif  to  the  window,  shook  th^ 
irpn  .  bars    with   the  .  fierce    strength    of 
n(iadne9s.!  .   His  ,  hands    were    cut    and 
bleedjiiff,    but   he  heeded   it   not,    ds   he 
struggled  like  a  caged  tigei-  to  wrench 
them  away.    .  AU  in   valh!     The   strong 
grating  resisted  all  his  efforts,  iand  he 
i    feH  beavjly  with  his  face  on  the  stone 
floor.    ,  ^liB    head   struck   on    something 
aharp.  and  the  blood  rained  .down  from 
a  «:ash  in  his  forehead.    He  pressed  hia 
hand   to  the  wound,   and  gazed  op   the 
flpwing  blood   vvtth  a   smile  that  might 
hav^^cWlted  the  atoute^  heart.*  -  v    , 

"Never  shall  they;«ao.-degrade  Ralph  De 
Leslie!  "he. Shouted,  springing  to  his  feet. 
'g3»is  night  ,  the  trage^dy  shall  be  com- 
Plptefl,  and.  the  gaping  mob  cheated  of 
its  "Victlfh!  'DK)  I  not  hold  ftiy  life  in 
niy  6;K'ii  hahast  and  shall  1  live  tt>  b^i. 
cQi^e  A  n;^t^  for  the  finger  of  scorn  to 
, .  potnt'^  at  ?  Never !  TO  'this  world,  ^wtth 
all  U«  drealina  &nd  delusions:  to  sun,  and* 
moon,  atid  stsirs,  I  win  this  night '  bid 


adieu.  Ere  morning  dawns  this  body, 
and  the  spirit  it  contains,  will  have  sunk 
into  nothingness." 

Into  nothingness!  Was  it  a  dream,  or 
was  it  the  mocking  laugh  of  a  fiend  that 
rang  through  the  lonely  cell? 

"Eternity!  eternity!"  he  said,  passing 
his  hand  across  his  clammy  brow;  "can 
it  be  that  what  preachers  tell  us  is  true, 
and  that  there  really  is  any  hereafter?  My 
mother  taught  me  so  once — my  mother! 
fiend  that  I  am,  dare  I  mention  her  sa- 
cred name?  Well,  in  a  few  moments  I 
will  have  solved  that  problem,  ahd  have* 
learped  the  mystery  that  no  living  man 
can  ever  know," 

.  He  walked  to  th6  window  and  listened. 
How  the  driving  rain  beat  against  that 
little  casement;  how  the  wind  howled 
and  roared!  It  seemed- to  hinj  like  the 
voice  of  the  Destroyer,  shouting  im- 
patiently for  his  prey.  From  the  black 
pall  of  night  that  no  eye  could  penetrate 
white,  spectral  faces  seemed  gleamlngr. 
mocking  him  With  their  deriding  lau^h-^ 
ter.  He  turned  away;  amid  the  war  of 
the  elements  and  the  roar  of  tixe  tempest 
should  his  dark,  crimson-atained  soul 
go  forth.  ;  ~     V         • 

The  storm  passed  away  with  the  morn- 
ing's dawn.  The  bright  isummer  sun- 
shine was  streaming  gloriously  through 
the  window  whien  the  jailer  entered,  And 
there,  right  in  the  glow  of  the  blei^ed 
sunlight,  hung  the  convulsed  form  of 
Ralph  De  Lisle— deiad  by  his  own  hand. 

Of  all  the  .sights  which  the  suii  rose 
Upon,  it  looked  on  none  more 'tearful 
than  that.  Without  the.  prispn  Walls, 
the  stream  of  busy  life,  fio wed Tnaeijtrily  ! 
on;  the  bride  stood  at  the  aitar,  the. 
roan  of  buainesa  hurried  by.  and  fieople 
talked  ;ahi9  laughed  aa  though  despair 
wa«  a  wor«  unknown;  and  withUi,  stark 
and  cola  in  tJie  glare  of  the,  aunllght. 
lay  the  rigid  form  Of  the  dead  man,  his 
face  upturned  to  the  sky,  and  staring 
wide  open  were  the  glassy  eyes .  that 
leaver  would  look  on  aught  In  this  world 
again! 


:  CHAPTER  XXXIIL    /\ 

■     A  sTAiiTWNO  DiacoyiBfif; ; ;" 

"^S^  ^^^  through  all  my  life  it  StWked, 
That  deadly,  deadly  sin!     "       -'f 

Though"^' erao  fair  the  outside  mirth, 
The  spectre  sat  within."  ;  ,, 

I   must  a$e  hitti  'be- 


"Go,   Elva,   go! 
fore  I  die!"  . 

'"Ohi  father,  liaten  to  the  ajtorm!    How 
can  I  go  out  to-night!'' 

"Qirlj  I  tell  you  I  in»at  sae  -him— J 
mwst!  Do  you  Jiear?  Even  though  fi're 
Wfefe  failing  from  heaved  Y0U  shdtild 
have  to  go  forth,  and  biiiig  Wiii  to  me!*' 
■  But,  felther,  I  know  ijot  wheirii*he  la! 
J,  ^'^M  ^ave  the  »t<^;.:i3«ip  j^  inay 
ale  here  bexoure  I;,r«stisi3»i,''.        '  V^     *- 

"I  cannot  ^Hl^^lwmriof  die  before 

r:    ■ 


k' 


THE    HERMIT    Ot'    THE    VUFk'ii, 


07 


his    body, 
have  sunk 

dream,  op 
fiend  that 

3,  passing 
fow;  "can 
us  is  true, 
after?  My 
mother! 
>n  her  sa- 
loments  I 
an.d  have* 
vlDg  man 

3  listened, 
linst  that 
howled 
n  like  the 
itlng  im- 
the  black 
penetrate, 
gieaminir. 
ng  lau^h- 
le  wa,r  of 
e  t^npest 
ined    soul 

the  morn- 
nier  suh<- 
7  through 
ered,  And 
le  blesBed 
form  of 
wn.  hand. 

suii   rose 
•e  •  tearful 
oil    Walls, 
aTjnefj-Uy ; 
litar,    the.  , 
ad  .'iMMple'-'- 
1   despair 
iln,  stark 
jaunlight. 

man,  his 
1  staring 
j^S  that 
Ills  world 

•  *S. - 

:'  Bit^ked, 

■■'  • '' 
mtrth, 

-  - ' '  .'.•  ■ .  ■ 

fiitii  «*)e- 

laV   How 

>  J»Jm— J 
ugh  ^flre 

1  shotild 
to  me!" 
**he  is! 
fMi  may 


you  return!"  almost  screamed  I*aul 
Snowe,  tossing  in  wild  delirium  on  his 
pillow.  "Go  and  find  Sir  William  Stan- 
ley, I  tell  you.'  and  bring  him  here  to 
nie.    I  cannot  (lie  untill  have  seen  him." 

It  was  that  same  tempestuous  night 
on  which  Ualph  De  Lisle  had  breathed 
his  last;  and  now  his  accomplice  in 
crime,  Paul  Snowe,  lay  wounded  unto 
death.  Strange  that,  on  the  same  night, 
i»oth  should  be  doomed  to  die.. 

He  lay  in  the  little  room  of  the  inn, 
near  Perclval  Hall.  It  was  the  same 
iiouse  in  which  De  Lisle  had  planned  the 
murder  of  Edith  a  few  weeks  before. 
Perhaps  the  recollection  of  that  night 
added  to  his  delirium,  as  he  tossed  on 
his  bed  in  feverish  agony. 

A  week  before,  as  he  loitered  round 
the  village,  bound  by  some  unaccount- 
able fascination  to  the  place  of  the  sup- 
posed murder,  he  had  been  stabbed  in  a 
drunKen  brawl.  Finding  his  days  were 
numbered,  he  had  caused  them  to  send 
for  his  daughter,  Elva,  who  had  arrived 
a, few  hours  before. 

Troubled  and  anxious,  Elva  threw  her 
cloak  over  her  shoulders,  and,  tying  o« 
her  hood,  hurried  out  into  the  driving 
I'aln.  As  she  passed  out,  she  encountered 
the  bijrly  landlord,  who  gazed  at  her  as 
though,  he  had  seen  a  ghost. 

"Jerusalem!"  he  ejaculated,  in  ama,ze- 
ment,  "you  ain't  going  out  anywhere  in 
this  storm,  Miss  Snowe?" 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  Sir  William 
Stanley  is  to  be  found?"  inquired  Elva, 
hurriedly. 

"Well,  no,  I  rayly  can't;  but  his  son 
lives  up  at  Perclval  Hall.  Likely  he  can. 
tell  you." 

"Perclval  Hall!"  said  Elva,  with  a 
start.  "Does  it  belong  to  Major  Percl- 
val?"   - 

"Yes'm."' 

/'Has  hie  a  daughter-,  EdHh?"  inquired 
lijlva,  with  increased  agitation; 

•^Yes^m,"  agaiti  responded  mine  host, 
looi^ng-  rather  surprised  at  the  emo- 
tion she  manifested. 

"Edith!  dear  Miss  Edith!"  exclaimed 
the  impulsive  Eiva,  in  a  sort  of  rapture, 
as  she  darted  out  into  the  blinding 
storm.  ,      ^ 

"WeUi  I  never,"  said  the  jolly  land- 
lord, epening  his  eyes  in  amazement,  un- 
til they  resembled  two  midnight  moons. 

In  a  moment  she  was  back  again,  and 
by  his  side. 

"Cattvyou  tell  me  which  way  I  must  go. 
tp  reaeh  Percival  Hall?"  she  asked, 
breathlessly.    '  * 

"Yes'm.  Keep  on  straight  for  a  spell, 
then  turn  to  the  right  and  take  the  for- 
est road.  Mind,  and  don't  go  the  other 
way,  or  you'll  break  your  neqk  over  the 
oliffs.  Tdu'd  better  let. me  send  Jemmy 
along  with  •  you  to  shoW  yoU  the  way, 
cftiise— oh!  sfce's  gone! -^  She's  a  qu^r 
oijci  "aM  ho;AU8take,r'  T^ald  the  ^^o^|| 


landlord,  hastening  to  raise  up  the  spir- 
its of  his  guests  by  pouring  his  own 
spirits   down. 

Meantime  Elva  pursued  her  lonely  way 
through  the  driving  rain  and  blinding' 
storm,  toward  Percival  HaU.  almost  Hy- 
ing along  In  her  haste  to  reach  it.  I 
scarcely  know  whether  It  is  proper  to 
tell  a  young  lady's  thoughts  or  not;  but 
certain  it  is  that,  though  Edith  occupied 
a  prominent  place  In  her  mind,  Edith's 
brother  occupied  a  still  more  promi- 
nenter  (I  don't  know  whether  that's  ac- 
cording to  Webster,  or  not). 

But  Elva,  bewildered  by  the  storm,  her 
own  thoughts,  her  haste,  and  the 
strangeness  of  the  place,  forgot  the 
landlord's  directions,  and  took  the  road 
leading  to  the  cliffs.  f^v,  s^?  went, 
."tumbling  £irid  sllppirig  over  rod  :■  end 
crags,  at  the  irnininent  danger  of  break- 
ing her  neck,  suddenly,  the  fiash  of  a 
light  caught  her  eye,  and,  walking  in 
that  direction,  she  soon  found  ht&rself 
before  the  home  of  the  Hermit  of  the 
Cliffs.  Elva  rapped  loudly,  and  A  mo- 
ment after  the  door  was.  opened,  and 
the  hermit  himself  stood  before  her, 
holding  a  lamp  in  his  hand,  the  full  light 
of  which  fell  on  his  imposing  figure. 

With  a  half -suppressed  scream  of 
mingled  terror  and  surprise  at  this  sin- 
gular apparition,  Elva  turned  to  fly, 
when  she  was  arrested  by  the  mild,  kind 
voice  of  the  hermit: 

"Fear  not,  riiy  daughter;  the  Hermit 
of  the  Cliffs  is  the  friend  of  all  man- 
kind." 

Elva  paused  and  stood  hesitating. 

"Come  in  out -of  the  storm^,  my  ehtldi 
It  is  a  wild,  night  for  a  young  girl  like 
you  to  be  abroad.'' 

Reassured  by  his  friendly  words,  and 
wishing  to  know  more  of  this  strange- 
looking  personage,  Elva,'  who  wa^  nat- 
urally ooiirageous,  entered  the  cottagre. 
.  She  glahced  curiously  around,  but 
there  was  nothing  very  singular  about 
it.  It  was  fitted  yp  as  any  other  oom- 
njon  room  .might  have  been,  and  was 
singularly  neat  and  clean. 

"Now,  my*  child,  what  can  I  do  for 
you?"  asked  the  hermit,  in  his  grave, 
pleasant  tones.  . 

"I  started  for  Perciva  Hall,"  an- 
swered Elya,  "and,  bein*  a  stranger 
herie,  I  lost  my  way;  and,  guided  by  the 
light  of  your  lamp,  I  wandered  here  and 
sought,  admittance." 
;  "You  had  better  stay  here  until  morn - 
ning,"  said  the  hermit;  "the  night  is  too 
stormy  for  yoii  to  venture  abroad."' 
.  "Oh,  nof  Icainnpt.  My  father  is  dying, 
and  I  cannot  rest  until  he  sees  Sir  Will- 
iam Stanley.  I- must  hasten  to  Perclval 
Hall  immediately,  if  yOu  wiU  be  kllid 
-erioiigli- ,to  show  me  the  way." 

"Sir  WiUiain  Stanley,  did  I  un4ersta|id. 
ypM.  tA  Jpay?"  .saUol   the  hermit,   with  a 
.atHJA^a  slart...,. ..'.■..  ■\.. 


,:'l 


THE    UEKMIT    OF    THE    VLIEFH. 


Hi  : 


l'S'   if 


"Yt's.  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  where 
to  find   him." 

"Who  is  your  father,  child?"  asked 
the  hermit,  without  heeding  her  ques- 
tion. 

"His  name  is  Paul  Snowe,"  replied 
Elva. 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  hermit,  almost 
I  oundlng    from    the    floor. 

"His  name  is  Paul  Snowe,"  repeated 
i:iva,  drawing  back  in  surprise  and 
alarm. 

"Good  Heavens!  is  it  possible!"  said 
the  hermit,  deeply  excited.  "And  are 
you  Paul  Snowe's  daughter?" 

"Yes.  sir,"  said  the  astonished  Elva. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"Elvena  Snowe." 

"Elvena!  Elvena!"  repeated  the  her- 
mit. "Can  there  be  two  Elvena  Snowe's 
Jn  the  world?"   • 

"Sir,  I  must  go,"  said  felva,  in  alarm, 
beginning  to   think  him  Insane. 

"Wait  one  moment,  and  I  will  go  with 
you,"  said  the  hermit,  cloaking  himself 
with  wonderful  celerity.  "Can  it  be  that 
T  will  see  Paul  Snowe  yet  once  again  be- 
fore I  die?" 

They .  passed  out,  and  the  hermit 
turned  in  the  direction  of  the  inn,  hold- 
ing Elva  firmly  by  the  hand. 

"But  I  must  go  to  Percival  Hall,"  said 
p]lva,  drawing  back. 
,  "Why?" 

."To  see  Sir  William  Stanley." 

"He  is  not  there,  child!" 

"His  son  is,  then,  and  he  can  tell  me 
where  to  find  him.  I  must  go,"  said 
Elva,  wildly. 

"His  son  knows  no  more  of  his  where- 
abouts than  you  do,  Elvena.  Believe 
me,  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  find  him 
to-night.  If  Paul  Snowe  wishes  any- 
thing, I  will  do  as  well  as  William  Stan- 
ley. Do  not  hesitate,"  he  added,  as  Elva 
still  hung  back;  "I  repeat,  it  is  utterly 
impossible,  for  you  to  find  him  to-night. 
Come." 

Elva  felt  convinced  that  he  spoke  the 
truth,  and,  seeing  no  alternative,  she 
allowed  him  to  draw  her  on,  inwardly 
dreading  to  meet  her  father  without  the 
man  for  whom  she  had  been  sent. 

On  reaching  the  inn,  the  hermit  de- 
manded to  be  at  once  shown  to  the 
chamber  of  the  Sick  man.  As  they  en- 
tered, Paul  Snowe  half  raised  himself  on 
his  elbow,  .and  glared  at  them  with  his 
inflamed  eyes. 

"Elva,  is  it  you?"  he  cried.  "Have 
you  brought  Sir  William  Stanley?  Ha! 
who  are  you?" 

"Your  best  friend,  Paul  Snowe,"  said 
the  hermit,  advancing  to  his  bedside. 

"I  should  know  that  voice.  Who  are 
you?" 

"Men  call  me  the  'Hermit  of  the  Cliff,' 
)iut  you  knew  me  by  another  name 
once,"  was  tki^  answer. 


"And  Sir  William  Stanley,  where  is 
he,  Elva?  Elva,  did  you  not  bring  him?" 
exclaimed  the  wounded  man,  in  an 
agony  of  alarm. 

"My  friend,  you  cannot  see  him.  Sir 
William  Stanley  is  many  a  mile  from 
here.  You  will  never  meet  him  in  this 
world  again,  for  your  hours  are  num- 
bered. Anything  you  wish  to  tell  him, 
confide  In  me,  and,  believe  me,  he  shall 
hear  it." 

"Can  I— dare  I  tell  you?  You  will  not 
have  me  arrested?"  said  the  Invalid, 
wildly. 

"No,  my  friend;  you  are  beyond  the 
reach  of  human  laws.  Speak,  and  fear 
not." 

"Men  say  you  are  good  and  generous," 
said  Paul,  tossing  restlessly;  "therefore, 
since  it  cannot  be  helped,  I  will  tell  you. 
Elva,  leave  the  room.  Listen;  what  1 
have  to  say  concerns  her." 

"Your   daugliter,   Elva?" 

"She  is  no  daughter  of  mine;  neither 
is  her  name  Elva.  I  stole  her  when  a 
child.    Her  name  is  Leila  Stanley!" 

He  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  hermit's  face, 
to  see  what  effect  this  announcement 
Would  have;  but,  beyond  one  sudden, 
convulsive  start,  he  betrayed  no  emo- 
tion. 

"Go  on,"  he  said,  after  a  pause.       ^ 

"To  tell  why  I  stole  her,  it  will  be 
necessary  to  go  back  in  my  history,  1 
once  had  a  sister — her  name  waa  Elvena 
— whom  I ,  loved  as  I  never  loved  any 
other  human  being  in  this  world.  She 
grew  up  a  beautiful  girl/the  pride  and 
belie  of  our  village;  but  in  an  evil  hour 
she  -met  Sir  William  Stanley.  He  was 
young  and  handsome  in  those  days,  and 
she  soon  learned  to  love  him.  He  pre- 
tended to  return  her  affection;  and,  un- 
der an  assumed  name,  he  wooed  and 
won  her.  She  became  his  wife — little 
dreaming  she  had  wedded  a  baronet. 
Well,  I  must  hurry  on,  for  I  feel  that  I 
have  but  a  few  moments  to  live.  ,  He 
used  to  go  to  England,  undei  pretense 
of  business,  and,  on  one  of  these  occa- 
sions, he  married  again  some  high-born 
lady.  He  had  grown  tired  of  his  first 
wife,  for  he  was  always  a  heartless  vil- 
lain; but  he  wanted  his  son  (th^y  had 
one  child).  He  came  and  forcibljr  fore 
him  away,  and  departed  for  Englah'd.  I 
don't  know  what  story  he  told  Lady 
Stanley  about  the  child;  probably  that 
he  had  been  married,  and  that  hii)  wife 
was  dead,  or  some  other  convenient  lie. 
1  was  absent  at  the  time,  but  <vhen  I 
returned  I  learned  what  had  hapt»ened — 
that  my  sister  had  gone  crazy  aiid  wan- 
dered off,  and,  as  we  afterward  teamed, 
died  in  a  distant  village.  I  swore  a 
fearful  oath  of  vengeance,  and  that  oatlt 
has  been  kopt^^  Years  passed  <ixi  befofe 
X  could  go  to  Elngland  and  seek  out  .thy 
sister's  murderelr.  1  foun^'liim  otif  at 
last,   and   learned   that   htf  had   ahother 


THE    HtJRMir    OF    THE    VLlFt'H. 


fherp  iB 
him?" 
In    an 

|m-  Sir 
»«^  fiom 
Jn  this 
num- 
?ll  him, 
le  shall 

/111  not 
|in  valid. 

fnd    the 
Id  fear 


M 


child — a  daughter,  whom  both  he  ana 
Lady  f^tanley  almost  Idolized.  He  had 
stolen  Eilvena'8  child  from  her,  and  so 
caused  her  death.  He  should  suffer  as 
she  had  done — he,  too,  should  know  what 
it  was  to  lose  a  child;  and  one  day, 
when  she  was  out  playing,  I  carried  her 
cff. 

"My  first  intention  had  been  to  kill 
little  Leila,  but  I  could  not  do  It.  As  you 
may  imagine,  there  was  a  mighty  up- 
roar* made  almut  Sir  William  Stanley's 
child  being  kidnapped;  the  whole  coun- 
try was  aroused,  but  I  eluded  them  all. 
r  had  a  friend — the  mate  of  a  small 
trading-vessel,  and  his  wife  consented  to 
take  care  of  the  little  lady. .  I  gave  her 
my  dead  slater's  name,  and,  as  Leila 
grew  up,  she  -forgot  she  ever  had  any 
other  parent  but  me.  I  brought  her  here, 
and,  after  a  time,  fell  in  with  Ralph  De 
Lisle;  and  joined  his  reckless  band  of 
licensed  cutthroats. 

"But  during  all  those  years  undying 
remorse  for  what  I  had  done  haunted 
me  day  ahd  night.  Lady  Stanley  had 
died  shortly  after  her  child's  loss;  and, 
when  I  heard  of  It,  I  felt  as  though  I 
were  a  murderer.  Do  what  I  would,  rea- 
son as  I  pleased,  my  accusing  conscience 
slept  not.  I  was  not  one  to  inspire  af- 
fection, but  I  think  Elva  really  likes  me. 
I  grew  fond  of  the  child  myself,  but  I 
never  could  endure  her  caresses;  for  at 
such  times  the  recollection  of  what  I 
had  done  would  rush  upon  me  with 
double  force,  and  I  would  think  how  she 
would  shrink  from  me  in  horror  did  she 
know  to  what  I  had  reduced  her — the 
heiress  of  a  baronet. 

"In  after  years,  I  met  Sir  William 
Stanley's  son.  Loving  my  sister  as  I 
did,  it  may  seem  strange  to  you  I  did  not 
love  her  child  also;  but  I  hated  him  for 
his  father's  sake.  He  was  once  im- 
prisoned by  De  Lisle,  and  liberated  by 
Elva,  who  little  dreamed  she  was  liber- 
ating her  own  brother. 

"As  I  toid  you,  my  undying  remorse 
gave  me  no  rest,  and  I  resolved  at  last 
to  tell  Sir  William  Stanley  what  I  had 
done,  and  then,  if  possible,  fly  the  coun- 
try. But  the  hand  of  Providence  over- 
took me,  and  my  tale  of  crime  has  been 
reserved  for  my  death -bed  confession. 

"The  dress  Elva  wore  the  day  I  stole 
her  is  in  yonder  chest,"  continued  the 
dying  man,  pointing  faintly  in  the  direc- 
tion; "also,  a  small  locket  containing  her 
mother's  portrait.  If  anything  further 
is  needed  to  establish  her  identity,  there 
Is  a  peculiar  mark  on  her  arm  that  can- 
not be  mistaken,  and  will  set  at  rest 
all  doubts.  And  now,  thank  Heaven,  my 
story  Is  ended,  and  Justice  has  been  done 
at  last.  It  Is  said  that  you  have  great 
po?ver  over  Sir  William  Stanley;  there- 
for^, y^u  will  have  no  trouble  in  induc- 
ing, Mm  to  helleve  nriy  dying  words." 

"litiUB  it  Is  that  Heaven  ever  oonfounds 


i 


the  wicked,  and  brings  hidden  things  of 
darkness  to  light.  Thus  it  Is  that  Jus- 
tice shall  be  nmdered  unto  all  men  at 
last,  .said  the  hermit,  clasping  his  hands 
soli'rnnly. 

'That  voice!— that  voice!"  said  Paul 
Snowe,  raising  himself  wildly  on  the  pil- 
low. "Has  the  grave  given  up  Its  dead? 
Are  you  a  man  or  a  being  from  the  world 
of  spirits?    (Jreat  Heaven,  are  you"— 

Ere  the  hermit  could  speak,  the  fear- 
ful death-rattle  resounded  through  the 
room.  He  clutched  the  air  convulsively, 
his  eyes  grew  fixed  and  glassy,  and, 
falling  heavily  back  on  his  pillow— all 
was  over! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

AT     LAST.  ^. 

"All's   well    that  eiid.s   well." 

Half  an  hour  passed  away  in  the 
chamber  of  death  ere  the  hermit  moved. 
He  sat  gazing  still  and  silent,  on  the 
rigid  form  before  him,  wondering,  per- 
haps, how  such  tierce  passions  could 
have  existed  in  that  clay-cold  form. 

Then  he  arose,  and,  opening  the  door, 
Ijeckoned  Elva  to  enter.  Awed  by  the 
expression  of  his  face,  she  stole  softly 
into  the  room,  and  approached  the  bed. 
As  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  rigid  figure 
stretched  upon  it,  she  sprang  back  with 
a  wild  cry  of  grief. 

For,  with  all  his  faults,  and  notwith- 
standing all  his  cruelty,  Elva  had  really 
loved  Paul  Snowe.  He  had  been  the 
only  friend  and  protector  she  had  ever 
known,  and  with  a  passionate  exclam- 
ation, "Oh,  father— father!"  she  fell  on 
her  knees  by  the  bedside  and  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands. 

"My  child,  grieve  not,"  said  the  her- 
mit, laying  his  hand  on  her  head,  "Paul 
Snowe  was  no  father  of  thine." 

She  arose  and  stood  before  him,  with 
parted  lips  and  wonder-dilated  eyes. 

"Not  my  father?"  she  said.  "Who, 
then,  is?" 

"Sir  William  Stanley." 

She  did  not  speak,  but  stood  still,  re- 
garding him  with  such  a  wild,  startled 
look  of  incredulity  and  amazement  that 
he  hastened  to  explain. 

"Sir  William  Stanley  had  wronged 
him,  and  to  revenge  himself,  he  stole  his 
only  daughter.  Your  name  is  not  Elva 
Snowe,  but  Leila  Stanley." 

"And  this  was  why  -he  implored  me  so 
wildly  to  bring  him  Sir  William  Stan- 
ley?" said  Elva,  In  a  low,  breathless 
tone,  almost  bewildered  by  this  sudden 
announcement. 

"It  was;  he  could  not  die  in  peace  un- 
til he  had  confessed  what  he  had  done. 
And  now  that  you  know  how  deeply  he 
has  wronged  you,  can  you  forgive  him?" 

Elva  was, gazing  sadly  and  intently  on 
the  death-cold  form  before  her.    At  the 


106 


Ttn:    HERMIT    OF    TUK    CLIFFS. 


W\ 


f 


f 


■';i 


hermlt'H    MueHtWin.    she    looked    up    and 
nald.  earneHtly: 

"ForKlve  him?  Oh,  yeH.  eh  I  hope  to 
be  forgiven.  But  this  HeeniH  8«»  strange 
—HO  Improbable— Bo  like  an  lOastern  ro- 
irtame  Cnn  It  be  that  1  really  have  a 
father  living?"  .  „        u 

•'And  a  l)n)ther.  likewise.  You  have 
i«een  Fred  Stanley?" 

•YtH— yes;  I  have  seen  him.  He  is 
tall  and  dark  and  handsome  as  a 
prince.  And  he  Is  my  brother!  Some- 
thing drew  me  toward  him  from  the 
lh>t;  but  1  never,  never  could  have 
imafeined  anything  so  wild  as  this!  He 
is  somewhere,  near  this,  Is  he  not?" 
"Ypb;   at  Percival  Hall." 

•ShaM   I   see  him   to-night?" 

"No;  it  were  better  not.  The  last  re- 
inalns-^rf  Paul  Snowe  must  be  consigned 
to  the  grave  first.  For  a  day  or  two 
you   will   remain   with   me,   and   then  all 

Hhall   be  revealed." 

•        ••*•••• 

"What  God  has  Joined  together,  let  no 
man  put  asunder." 

The  great  drawing-room  of  Percival 
Hall  was  ablaze  with  light.  From  base- 
ment to  attic  the  house  was  crowded 
with  guests,  assembled  from  far  and 
near,  to  witness  the  nuptials  of  Major 
Percival's  daughters. 

Fred-  and  Gus,  looking  excessively 
happy,  and  very  unnecessarily  hand- 
some, stood  before  the  venerable  clergy- 
man, who,  in  full  canonicals  and  im- 
posing dignity,  pronounced  the  words 
that  made  them  the  happiest  of  men. 
Edith  and  Nell,  radiant  with  smiles  and 
white  satin,  blushes  and  orange-flowers, 
stood  by  their  side,  promising  dutifully 
to  "love,  honor  and  obey;"  although,  if 
the  truth  must  be  told,  Nell  hesitated 
a  little  before  she  could  promise  the  lat- 
ter. 

Suddenly  the  door  was  flung  open,  and 
in  a  pompous  tone,  the  aristocratic  but- 
ler announced: 

"Sir  William   Stanley." 

Had  a  bomb  exploded  in  their  midst, 
greater  consternation  could  not  have 
appeared  on  every  face  present,  as  Sir 
William,  pale,  wild,  excited  and  agitat- 
ed, stood  before  them. 

'This  is  an  u-nexpected  pleasure.  Sir 
William,"  said  Major  Percival,  advanc- 
ing with  extended  hand. 

"My  daughter — my  daughter!  la  she 
here?"  demanded  the  baronet,  wildly. 

"Your  daughter?"  said  Major  Percival, 
in  surprise.     "If  you  mean  Edith" — 

"No,  no,  no,  no!  I  mean  my  own  child 
—my  long-lost  Leila!" 

"Can  he  be  deranged?"  said  the  major, 
turning  to  Fred   with  a   look  of  alarm. 

"I  am  not  mad— read  that!"  said  Sir 
William,  handing  the  major  a  note. 

"Go  to  Percival  Hall,"  it  said.  "This 
night  you  shall  hear  of  your  lost  daugh- 
ter, Leila," 


'It  Is  from  the  mysterious  Hermit  of 
the  Cliffs,"  said  the  major,  In  astonish- 
ment.    "What   can  he   mean?" 

"What  he  says,"  said  a  ealm,  elear 
voice  that  made  them  all  Htart  as  they 
turned  and  beheld  the  hermit  in  their 
midst. 

"My  daughter— my  Leila — what  of 
her?"  exclaimed  Sir  William,  striding 
forward. 

"Behold  her!"  said  the  hermit,  step- 
ping back,  and  every  eye  turned  to  the 
slight,   girlish   figure  behind   him. 

"Elva  Snowe!"  exclaimed  a  half  dozen 
voices  simultaneously,  while  the  baronet 
started   back  suddenly  at  the  name. 

"Not  Elva  Snowe,  but  Leila  Stanley," 
paid  the  hermit,  drawing  her  forward. 
"On  his  death-bed,  Paul  Snowe  confessed 
he  had  stolen  her,  and  resigned  her  (o 
jTie.  This  trinket  was  on  her  person 
when  stolen.  Probably  you  recollect  it, 
Sir  William." 

"Yes — yes;  It  was  I  who  placed  it  on 
her  neck;  but,  if  Leila,  she  bears  on  her 
arm  a  singular  mark" — 

"Look."  said  the  hermit,  pushing  up 
her  sleeve,  and  exposing  a  little  crimson 
heart;   "are  you  convinced  now?" 

"My  child— my  child!"  exclaimed  Sir 
William,  clasping  in  his  arms  the  shrink- 
ing Elva.  "Thank  Heaven.  I  have  found 
you  at  last." 

Amazement  held  every  one  silent.  But 
the  hermit  advanced  and  said: 

"You  have  found  one  child,  and  the 
other"— 

"Shall  be  mine  likewise,"  interrupted 
the  baronet,  approaching  Fred,  "if  he 
can  forgive  the  past." 

"Willingly,  joyfully,  my  dear  father!" 
said  P'red,  grasping  his  hand  while  tears 
sprang  to  his  dark  eyes.  "And  Elva— 
Leila  rather — may  I  claim  a  brother's 
privilege?"  he  added,  pressing  his  mus- 
tached  lip  to  her  blushing  brow. 

"And  now  for  a  still  more  surprising 
discovery,"  said  Sir  William,  turning 
with  much  agitation  toward  the  hermit. 
"On  this  joyful  occasion  it  will  not  do 
to  have  one  cloud  marring  our  festivity. 
If  you  can  forgive  me  for  the  great 
wrong  I  have  done  you,  we  may  see 
many  happy  days  together  yet." 

For  a  moment  the  hermit  hid  his  face 
in  his  hands,  while  his  whole  frame  quiv- 
ered with  powerful  emotion.  Then,  rais- 
ing his  head,  to  the  amazement  of  all 
present,  he  removed  his  flowing  white 
hair  and  his  long  beard.  His  large,  flow- 
ing robe  fell  from  his  shoulders,  and  lo! 
a  pale,  stately,  dark-haired  woman  stood 
before  them. 

Wonder  chained  every  tongue.  Sir 
William  Stanley  sprang  forward  and 
clasped  her  in  hia  arms,  exclaiming  pas- 
sionately: 

"My  wife — my  wife — my  own  Elva'" 

"Good  Heaven!     Sir  William  Stanley; 


nJlJ    llLUMll     Ol'    lilK    iUtl,y. 


lUi 


lat     (,t 

•     Btt'J). 

to   the 


\'.  hut   mt'aiiH  all   this?"  exclaimed   Major 
IVr.lval,  flndltiK  his  tuiiRue  at  laHt. 

"It  nieanH,"  Hald  Hlr  Wllliain,  iuIhImk 
Ills  head  proudly,  "that  this  lady  In  my 
tlrBt,  my  only  wife,  Elvena  Snowe.  I)«m'i>- 
ly  have  I  wronged  her,  but  I  shall  strive 
to  atone  for  it,  by  a  public  ronfession 
to-night.  When  I  forcibly  toulc  her  son 
from  her,  yonder  youth,  she  waw  for  a 
lime  deranged  and  wandered  away  from 
the  village  of  her  birth.  After  a  time 
a  report  went  forth  that  she  was  dead. 
Hhe  heard  It,  when  sanity  partially  re- 
turned, and  resolved  never  to  return  to 
the  spot  where  she  had  suffered  so 
much.  She  found  a  cottage  deserted 
iimong  the  wild  cliffs,  and  resolved  to 
make  her  home  there.  Afraid  that  some 
one  would  recognize  and  bring  her  back, 
with  the  cunning  of  partial  derange- 
ment, she  disguised  herself  as  you  have 
ween,  and  for  years  lived  on  alone,  until 
she  learned  to  love  the  dreary  spot. 
When  the  war  commenced  I  came  here, 
and  was  followed  by  my  son.  She  heard 
of  it,  and,  unknown  herself,  she  deter- 
mined to  watch  over  her  son.  I,  as  you 
all  know,  had  condemned  him  to  die. 
At  the  eleventh  hour  she  came,  and  by 
disclosing  who  she  was,  saved  his  life. 
I    believed    her,    for    the    time,    to    be    a 


being  from  the  world  of  spiritH,  and  tlu» 
shock  und  surprise  were  ho  great  that 
I  Mi)ari'd  my  Hon.  Afterward  we  mot. 
und  she  tt>ld  .me  all:  but  pride  would 
not  allow  me  to  contuHH  to  the  world 
my  guilt.  Kut  now  since  Leila  has  been 
so  miraculously  restored,  I  van  trample 
pride  and  the  opinion  ;)f  the  world  uii- 
iler  foot,  and  proclaim  the  »)ii(  ••  Hermit 
of  the  ('llffs  my  wife,  in  the  face  of 
heaven  and  earth!"' 

A  month  later,  Sir  William  and  Lady 
Stanley  were  bounding  over  the  blue 
waves    to    "Merrie    England." 

They    went    not    alone,    for    Leila,    now 
Mis.  Nugent  Pentlval.  and  her  liusbund,. 
her. 

Edith    and    Guh    and     Nell 
land  thty  loved  best. 

farewell.  We  have 
long,  but  notliing 
can  last  forever.  All  thingH  must  have 
a  close,  and  the  charactcis  who  have 
passed  before  you  must  disappear  from 
your  view  at  last.  I,  too,  must  go  from 
your  sight— for  the  daylight  is  dying  out 
of  the  sky,  anil  my  task*  is  ended.  I 
trust,  however,  we  may  meet  again, 
rrnic  KND.l 


accompanied 
Fred    and 

dwelt  In  the 

•        * 

And    now,    reader. 
Journeyed     together 


VT  " 


i-*s« 


•*■'  \ 


"I-  'f-X..*:^.*- 


•  •      <\  •«. 


'i:=..'»- 


'iVV  *  '^  . 


.,--r..t.»iv 


>x^v 


'  .■-.-.• 


•r"*",!! 


ii«. 


■■-I?- 


».  >V*y "f, 


,  ^••'.  TV  4 


*,M'--rt^-*.»^: 


■.^•^y((.7-; 


I 


;■?..,, -v- 


■■■    ■If.^-  ^,,-_ 


Tl  SISTER  OF  CHARITY. 

By  Mrs.    MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 

Author  of  A  Wonderful   Woman,"  "A  Terrible  becrei,-'  "  The  Mystery  al  Jiiacknmod  Granqe  •• 

^  "Sir  N.el'8  Heir,"  Etc.,  Etc.  ' 


'She    was    once    a    lady    of    honor    an>^. 
wealth 

JJright  glowed  on  her  features  the  roses 
of  health; 

Her  vesture  was  blended  of  silk  and  of 
gold, 

And    her    motion    shook    perfume    from 
every  fold. 

Joy  revelled  around  her,   love  shone  at 
her  side, 

And  gay  was  her  smile,  as  the  glance  o{ 
a  bride. 

And   light   was   her  step   in   the   mirth- 
sounding  hall, 

AVhen  she  heard  of  the  daughters  of  Vin- 
cent de  Paul." 

Q.  Ghifpkn. 

This  was  my  first  visit  to  the  city.  All 
my  life  had  been  spent  in  a  quiet  coun- 
try farmhouse^  far  removed  from  the 
noise  and  bustle  and  din  of  the  outer 
world.  The  most  exciting  events  of  my 
life  were  my  first  parasol  and  my  first 
beau.  So  it  will  not  be  wondered  at  that 
I  was  completely  bewildered  with  de- 
light at  the  ever-varying  scenes  and 
faces  I  met  in  my  new  home.  There  was 
a  vast  difference  between  passing  my 
eveninga  quietly  knitting,  or  sewing,  or 
reading,  as  I  had  formerly  done,  and  go- 
ing each  night  to  balls,  and  parties,  and 
concerts,  and  operas,  as  I  did  now. 

Among  the  many  new  acquaintances  I 
made  there,  there  was  one  who  particu- 
larly struck  me  from  the  first.  This  was 
a  young  lady,  the  only  child  and  heiress 
of  a  Southern  millionaire,  the  reigning 
beauty  and  belle  of  the  city.  No  queen 
on  her  throne  could  receive  tho  homage 
of  her  subjects  more  proudly  than  did 
Alma  Vernon;  and,  truly,  no  queen  could 
look  more  regal  than  she.  I  close  my 
eyes  and  see  her  now  standing  before 
me,  as  1  did  the  first  night  we  met;  her 
gorgeous  robe  of  purple  velvet  sweeping 
the  carpet  with  its  rich  folds;  her  dia- 
mond necklace  and  cross  flowing  in  a 


blaze  of  light  around  her  snowy  neck, 
and  flashing  like  imprisoned  sunbeamn 
from  her  ears  and  on  her  fingers.  A  glit- 
tering circlet  of  gems  enclasped  her  long, 
silky,  jet-black  tresses,  that  would  per- 
sist in  eoquettishly  breaking  from  their 
\  imprisonment,  and  fiow  in  long  spiral 
ringlets  on  her  neck. 

I  think  she  was  the  proudest  girl  I 
ever  knew.  How  gloriously  her  splendid 
:  Oriental  eyes  ^ould  kindle,  and.  her 
beautiful  lip  ^  ill  sarcastically,  as  she 
I  listened  with  scornful  indifference  to  the 
I  prettily-turned  compliments  ever  poured 
in  her  ear  by  he!"  admiring  train  of  fol- 
lowers. 

I  used  to  stand  ^n  some  distant  corner 
and  watch  her  for  hours  together  with  a 
sort  of  subdued  rapture;  she  evinced 
over  me  a  sort  of  i^trauge  fascination,  for 
which  I  cannot  account.  Of  me,  she 
never  took  any  not.'ce.  I  was  too  small 
and  insignificant;  I  was  only  one  among 
the  countless  numbers  who  regarded  her 
as  a  being  belonging  to  a  higher  sphere. 

Among  the  most  devoted  of  her  fol- 
lowers there  was  one,  a  dashing  young 
ofllcer,  the  handsomest  man  I  have  ever 
seen.  Captain  Travers  seemed  in  every 
way  fitted  for  the  peerless  "Flower  of 
the  South/'  as  she  was  called.  Rich, 
handsome,  distingue,  of  an  old  and  aris- 
tocratic family, .  there  seemed  nothing 
likely  to  Impede  the  course  of  his  woo- 
ing; and  the  world  was  not  surprised 
when  it  was  announced  that  Captain 
Travers  and  the  "Flower  of  the  South" 
were  engaged. 

About  this  time,  matters  over  which  I 
had  no  control  rendered  it  necessary  I 
should  leave  home  for  another  land.  I 
departed  in  the  hope  of  speedily  return- 
ing again  to  witness  the  nuptials  that 
were  soon  to  take  place.  But  fate  or- 
dered it  otherwise;  and  three  yeam 
elapsed  ere  I  again  set  foot  on  my  natir^ 


i 


•ft!'.  " 


10 


TZ/B  8I&TBR  OF  CHARITY. 


J'O' 


I:        \' 


Ui!' 


f 


ji 


ghore.  My  lirst  Inquiry  was  for  my  old 
friends,  arid  ariiorig  the  I'est  for  Alma 
Vernon;  but.  to  my  surprise,  no  one 
knew  anything  of  her.  She  had  left  the 
city  shortly  after  my  departure,  accom- 
panied by  Captain  Travers,  and  since 
then  had  not  been  heard  of.  All  my  en- 
deavors to  iearn  further  were  in  vain. 
I  could  hear  nothing  more  of  her. 

One  day  1  repaired  to  the  house  ceu- 
pled  by  the  Sisters  of  Charity,  being 
anxious  to  place  a -poor,  friendless  or-, 
phan  under  the  charge  of  the  good  Sis- 
ters. My  business  concluded,  I  arose. to 
go,  when  the  iSuperior,  noticing  the  curi- 
osity with  which  I  eyed -tihe  chapel— 
JWhich  I  could  see  from  thie  parlor  where 
we  were^-said: 

;,  'Perhaps,  miss,  you  would  like  to  see 
the  chapel?  If  iBO,  vespers  will  com- 
ihence  presently,  and  we  will  be  happy 
to  have  you  remain."'.  "'  .  ^;  .,  '  .  ,  .. 
\.  Having  eagerly  signified  'the  pleasure 
it  would  give  me  to  do  so,  Ifollowed  the 
nun  to  the  chapel.  The  profound  still- 
ness that  reigned  here,  the  perfume  of 
the  flowers  with  which  it  was  adorned, 
:ihe  beautiful  pictures  and  statues 
afoTind,  made  the  place  seem  very  lovely 
indeed.  Involuntarily  I  fell  to  speculait- 
ing  oil  the  lives  the  nuns  must  lead,  and 
wondering  if  be'ng  confined  here  was  not 
terribly  irksome,  when  a  lay  sister  en- 
tered to  light  the  candles  on  the  altar— 
aisCkttiolics  always  do  before  service.  In 
a  few  moments  after,  the  nuns  entered 
in  procession,  two  by  tw<^  and  noiseless- 
ly took  their,  places.  Suddenly  I  started; 
I'almost  exclaimed  aloud,- as,  amid  the 
numerous  black-robed  figures  that  glid- 
ed past  me.  I  beheld  the  tall,  graceful 
form  and  beautiful  face  of  the  '/Flower 
of  the  South,"  Alma  Vernont  ..  ^1 
/<  Like  one  in  a  dream.  I  saw  her  take 
her^  place  at  the  organ  to  sing  vespers. 
For  a  moment  I  fancied  my  eyes  were 
deceiving  me.  Altna  Vernon— the  heir- 
ess, the  beauty,  and  bene— a  nuril  The 
thought  was  bewildering,  and  yet  she  it 
was!  There  could  be  no  mistaking  that 
pale,  but  still  ^exquisitely  lovely  face— 
rovelier.  I  fancied,  than  I  L.td  ever  seen 
ij;  before;  for  the  old  scornful,  sarcastic 
look  of  ipride  was  gone,  leaving  in  its 
place  one  of  calm,  earnest,  heartfelt 
peace,  which  cannot  be  descfi'bed',  but 
which  those  who  l\ave  seoji  nu^s  can  un^ 
.derstand.  Yes.  there  she  stood':  the  veil- 
vet  robes  exchanged  fw  her  black  nun's; 
dress;  her  diamonds  gone,  and  in  th«lr 
place'  a  rcJsary  "aad  ciructfii ;"  tlftr  iKjUig^, 


silken  curls  shorn  off.  and  their  place 
supplied  by  her  long  black  veil— tBe 
badge  of  her  eternal  separation  from  the 
world.        ^ 

There  was  something,  I  thought,  al- 
most seraiphic  in  her  face,  as  with  the 
others  she  cha;nted  the  "Evening  Hymn 
to  the  Virgin."  When  the  vespers  con- 
cluded, she  flitted  past  like  a  shadow 
among  the  rest,  and  disappeared. 

It  was  one  of  the  lay  sisters  who  came 
to  show  me  out.  so  there  was  no  oppor- 
tunity of  having  my  curiosity  concerning 
her  gratified.  1/ stepped  out,  the  heavy 
door  closed  behind  me«  and  I  shuddered 
as  I  heard  it— it  seemed  so  like  shutting 
in  those  fair  young  nuns  in  a  living 
tomb.  - 

I  visited  the  convent  many  times  after 
that,  but  still  no  opportunity  occurred  of 
my  seeing  Alma  Vernon  again.  I  shrank 
from  asking  the  Superior — might  she  not 
think  it  impertinent  curiosity? — and  I 
knew  not  the  name  she  went  by  among 
the  Sisters,  so  I  could  not  ask  to  see  her- 
self. And  even  if  I  had  known  it,  what 
motive  could  I  say  prompted  me  to  ask 
for  her?  I  had  no  doubt  she  had  forgot- 
ten me  long  ago.  So  weeks  passed  on, 
and  my  curiosity  was  still  unsatisfied. 
Where  was  Captain  Travers?  Why  had 
those  two,  who  seemed  formed  for  each 
other,  parted?  Why  had  she  become  a 
Catholic?  I  wondered  and  wondered,  and 
worked  in  my. own  mind  a  romance  con- 
cerning them,  but  still  the  wish  to  hear 
the  story  haunted  me  night  and  day. 

One  evening  as  I,  with  some  friends, 
was  out  driving,  a  sudden  storm  of  thun- 
der and  lightning  arose,  with  such  vio- 
lence that  our  horses  took  to  flight,  anjl 
all  pur  efforts  to  restrain  them  were  in 
vain.  On,  on  they  went,  dashing  madly 
through  the  crowded  streets,  while  the 
appalled  crowd  strove  to  check  them  in 
vain.  I  closed  my  eyes,  expecting  in- 
stant death,  when  suddenly  a  cloak  was 
thrown  over  the  heads  of  the  furious 
animals,  a  powerful  hand  grasped  the 
reins,  and  we  were  safe.  A  loud  shout 
from  the  crowd  followed  the  deed,  and 
numberless  hands  were  still  outstretched 
to  restrain  the  still  restive  horses.  I 
ventured  to  look  up  to  thank  our  deliv- 
erer, but  he  cut  me  short- by  lifting  Jiis 
hat  and  disappearing  among  the  crowd. 
Somewhat  chagrined  by  the  indifferent 
way  In  which  he  had  treated  the  pretty 
speecli  I  was  about  to  make,  I  turned  to 
One  of  the  bystanders  and  inquired  who 
^hie'^^«raiji;-':'t^v  ■:".;;■■  "  ■:  •",■'.:■■"-■,'.■:::    *.;,.. 


THE  8I8TER  OF  CHARITY. 


11 


"A  Catholic  priest,"  was  the  reply. 
^'He  was,  jvist  leaving  yonder  cottage, 
where  th'ere  is  a  sick  woman,  when  your 
carriage  came  dashing  down  the  street. 
Quick  as  lightning  he  sprang  forward 
and  "threw  hi«  cloak  over  the  horses' 
heads,  and  so  saved  your  life." 

"You  had  better  go  into  one  of  those 
cottages  for  a  few  moments,"  said  a  gen- 
tleman of  our  party,  approaching  me. 
"The  shaft  has  been  brok  >.,  ti:^. '  must  be 
repaired  before  we  can  lo  any  farther." 
.  I  sprang  to  the  ground,  and,  making 
my  way  through  the  crowd,  approached 
one  of  the  humble-looking  cottages  and 
entered.  It  was  a  wretched,  squalid 
place,  totally  devoid  of  furniture,  and 
rendered  almost  unendurable  by  the 
dense  smoke  with  which  it  was  filled, 
tha^  came  from  the  black,  smoldering 
fire  in  the  hearth.  Two  or  three  dirty, 
half-naked  children  sat  cowering  over 
the  miserable  fire,  striving  in  vain  to 
wi^m  their  chilled  limbs.  But  my  at- 
tention was  soon  drawn  from  them  to 
another  sight.  In  the  farthest  corner, 
stretched  on  a  heap  of  straw,  and  cov- 
ered only  by  a  single  ragged  quilt,  lay 
the  worn  and  wasted  form  of  a  woman, 
wbose  livid  face,  purple  lips,  and  glaring 
eyes  betokened  the  r.apid  approach  of 
death.  Kneeling  by  her  side,  and  hold- 
ing one  of  the  dyii^g  woman's  hands  in 
hers,  was  a  Sister  of  Charity.  In  her 
ether  hand  she  held  a  prayer-book,  from 
which  she  read,  in  a  low,  sweet,  sooth- 
.  tag  voice,  the  touching  prayers  for  the 
4yfng.  I  approached  softly  on  tiptoe, 
and,  with  A  feeling  of  awe,  such  as  the 
presence  of  death  can  never  fail  to 
awaken,  I  knelt  down.  As  I  did  so,  I 
caught  sight  of  the  nun's  face,  and  be- 
Keld  f<  ?  the  second  time  the  beautiful 
Matured  of  Alma  Vernon.  I  canr.ot  de- 
scribe the  feeling  that  stole  over  me  as  I 
re^gnized  her.  She,  the  once  flattered 
heiress  and  belle,  the  sole  attendant  of  a 
poor,  wretched  pauper— she,  who  had 
Itved  all  her  life  in  the  grandest  and 
most  aristocratic  of  mansions,  kneeling 
now  In  this  wretched  hovel  alone.  Sure- 
ly, some  motive  highe  and  nobler  than 
any  other  earthly  consideration  must 
have  induced  her  to  leave  riches,  and 
-eomforts;  and  all  the  pleasures  that 
wealth  and  beauty  can  bring,  to  become 
aberrant  df  servants,  to  become  tlie  at- 
tendant of  paupers,  forgotten  and.  de- 
spised by  aU  the  rest  of  the  world— to 
teecom€,  IB  A  word,  a  Ststw  <rf  Charity. 
I  katl  aiismyB  looked  iJpon  nvnm  '&»  oie- 


graded  beings,  sunk  in  superstition,  and 
blinded  by  fanaticism;  but  in  this  mo- 
ment some  of  my  old  prejudices  were 
swept  away.  Alma  Vernon,  enlightened 
and  accomplished,  surely  could  not  be  a 
victim  of  priestcraft;  and  yet,  the  old 
romance  came  again  before  me,  how  had 
she  left  the  world?  Had  she  married 
Captain  Travers?  What  had  become  of 
him— so  young,  so  noble,  so  handsome? 
How  many  heartaches  chose  two  must 
have  suffered  before  they  parted!  What 
would  I  not  give  to  know  th©  whole 
story? 

Lost  in  my  own  reflections,  I  almost 
forgot  where  I  was,  until  a  noise  that 
made  my  blood  run  c^ld  smote  upon  my 
ear.  It  was  what  is  called  the  death-rat- 
tle— the  sure  forerunner  that  life  is  go- 
ing. I  looked  up;  the  woman  lay  back 
on  the  pillow,  her  features  already  grow- 
ing rigid  in  death,  while  the  nun  clasped 
her  hands  and  exclaimed  fervently: 
"May  God  have  mercy  on  her  soul!" 

For  a  few  moments  she  remained  ab- 
sorbed in  profound  prayer,  while  her 
beautiful  face  wore  a  look  of  such  rapt 
devotion  that  she  resembled  an  angel.  I 
scarcely  dared  to  breathe,  until  at  length 
the  nun  arose,  and,  turning  round,  be- 
held me.  A  slight  bow  was  the  only  no- 
tice she  took  of  me;  and  she  began  to 
compose  the  limbs  of  the  dead  woman  in 
the  attire  of  the  grave.  She  then  whis- 
pered to  the  elder  of  the  children.  Who 
went  out,  and  reappeared  with  two  or 
three  women  from  the  adjoining  cot- 
tages. Very  profound  and  respectful  was 
their  courtesy  to  the  Sister,  who  gave 
them  a  few  directions  in  a  low  tone,  and 
then,  approaciiing  the  little  porch  where 
I  stood,  she  held  out  her  hand,  saying, 
with  a  smile  inexpressibly  sweet: 

"We  are  old  friends,  I  believe.  I  saw 
you  that  day  at  vespers;  and  the  little 
orphan  Ellen,  whom  you  brought  us,  is 
never  done  speaking  of  you.  So,  you  see, 
I  am  well  acquainted  with  you." 

"I  believe  I  have  a  still  stronger  claim 
to  your  friendsihip,"  said  I.  raising  her 
hand  to  my  lipt!.  "Long  ago  I  knew  you 
as  Mies  Vernon,  though  I  know  not  now 
whether  to  address  you  by  that  name  or 
Mrs.  Travers."  She  grew  very  pale,  and 
drew  her  hand  away,  while  she  said, 
hurriedly: 

"As   neither— as    neither!     To   one  I 
have  no  right*  the  other  I  have  left  be- 
Irind  me  la  the  world,  together  with  all- 
*he  «mpty  vanftlea  that  were- wine  when 


xa 


THE  B1HTEB  OF  CHARITY. 


I  bore  it.  I  am  now  Sister  Mary  Teresa. 
But  you— who  are  you?" 

"Don't  you  remember  a  little  awkward 
country  girl,  who  used  to  follow  you  like 
a  shadow?"  said  I,  laughing. 

"Little  Susie!  Oh,  I  remember  her  per- 
fectly! And  are  you  that  little  thing? 
How  you  have  grown!" 

"Yes;  I  have  shot  up  wonderfully 
these  last  three  years,"  said  I.  "And  you 
—you  have  changed  greatly,  too." 

She  sighed  first,  then  smiled. 

"Yes,  I  have  grown  old  and  worn-out. 
Did  you  recognize  me  that  day  in  the 

chapel?"  ^  ^,^, 

"Recognize  you!    Oh,  of  course  I  did! 

Though    I    could    scarcely    believe    my 

"I  suppose  you  hardly  expected  to  see 
Alma  Vernon,  the  most  worldly  and 
thoughtless  of  girls,  in  a  veiled  nun," 
said  the  Sister. 

"Indeed.  I  did  not.  Ah!  Miss  Vernon, 
what  could  have  ever  induced  you  to 
leave  the  world  for  a  convent!"  I  ex- 
claimed, earnestly. 

"Not  that  name— call  me  Sister,"  she 
said,  with  a  slightly  impatient  move- 
ment. "And  so  you  would  like  to  hear 
my  story,  Susie?" 

"Oh,  indeed,  I  would,  Sister  Teresa!" 
said  I,  eagerly.  "Do  tell  me  why  you 
left  all  the  '^.umberless  pleasures  that 
were  yours  for  a  gloomy  convent.  And 
Captain  Travers — where  is  he?" 

Her  voice  faltered  a  little,  but  she  an- 
swered, calmly,  "He  is  dead!" 

I  was  shocked,  the  announcement  came 
so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly.  I  had 
seen  him  last  full  of  life  and  radiant 
with  beauty,  glowing  with  hope  and 
light-heartedness:  and  now— I  raised  my 
eyes  to  the  still  lovely  face  of  the  nun, 
who  stood  with  her  large,  ^rk  eyes 
fixed  on  the  floor,  while  the  nervous 
twitching  of  her  mouth  betrayed  that  the 
old  memories  had  again  risen  before  her 
with  saddening  power. 

"And  this  is  why  you  became  a  nun," 
said  I,  at  length. 

"Partly;  but  I  have  not  time  to  tell  you 
now.  Come  to  the  convent  some  day. 
and  I  will  tell  you  all.  Perhaps  the  story 
may  do  you  good.  I  must  go  now.  Good- 
by." 

She  pressed  my  hand,  and,  drawing 
her  thick  veil  over  her  face,  she  hurried 
away,  and  was  soon  out  of  sight. 

I  went  several  times  after  that  to  the 
wnvent,  but  some  weeks  passed  ere  I 
found  an  opportunity  of  hearing  Sister 


Teresa -s  story.  At  length,  one  day,  she 
came  to  meet  me  in  the  parlor,  apd  with- 
out preface  began  her  story: 

"Shortly  after  you  left  the  city  I  start- 
ed for  New  Orleans,  my  bii't^olaoe,  ac- 
companied by  papa,  Captain  Travers  and 
my  cousin  Lulu.  As  you  know,  we  were 
engaged  to  be  married  in  a  few  weeks, 
but  I,  ever  whimsical  and  capricious, 
and  taking  a  strange  delight  in  torment- 
ing others,  suddenly  changed  my  mind, 
and  positively  refused  to  fulfill  my  en- 
gagement until  we  had  made  a  tour 
through  Europe.  Captain  Travers  and 
the  others  rebelled,  but  the  more  they 
urged  me  the  more  determined  I  became, 
and  at  last,  much  against  theii*  will,  they 
consented.  There  were  a  large  number 
of  passengers  on  board,  and  I  soon  made 
many  acquaintances,  and  resumed  ,  my 
old  business  of  flirting,  with  the  amiable 
design  of  making  Tracers  jealous,  in 
this  I  succeeded  to  perfection.  He  grew 
morose  and  sullen,  scarcely  ever  speak- 
ing to* any  one;  but  I  kept  on  in  my  mad 
career,  not  caring  a  straw  for  him  or  hit; 
jealousy  —  for  I  had  never  really  loved 
him  as  a  woman  should  the  man  she  in- 
tended to  marry.  I  liked  him  well 
enough ;  he  was  rich  and  handsome,  and 
polite-^and  that  was  all  I  fancied  any 
one  wanted  in  a  husband;  and  as  for 
sacrificing  any  whim  of  my  own  to 
please  him,  I  had  no  idea  of  it. 

"Still,  there  were  times  when  I  did  not 
flirt;  when  I  was  as  quiet  and  subdued 
as  even  Captain  Travers  could  wish. 
This  was  when  conversing  with  one  of 
the  passengers,  a  Catholic-priest.  iv 

At  first,  when  I  met  him,  I  took  him 
to  be  a  professor,  in  his  plain  black  suit. 
Had  I  then  known  what  he  really  was,  I 
would  have  shrunk  from  him  as  from  an 
Eastern  leper.  But  I  did  not  know;  and 
there  was  a  strange  charm  in  his  dis- 
course that  often  drew  me  to  his  side. 
One  day  he  accidentally  mentioned  who 
he  was,  and.  to  my  own  surprise,  I 
found  myself  listening  without  the  hor- 
ror I  once  thought  I  would  have  felt 
at  meeting  a  priest.  From  that  day 
I  sought  Father  John  —  as  he  called 
himself  —  continually.  It  was  such  a 
relief — aftfer  listening  to  the  tawdry 
compliments  and  insipid  nothings  of  the 
brainless  fops  that  hovered  around  me— r 
to  hear  Father  John's  grave,  earnest,  but 
gentle  words.  By  degrees,  partly  to  pass 
the  time  at  first,  I  began  to  question  him 
concerning  his  religion;  and  became  so 
enraptured  with  his  explanations  that. 


THE  8IBTBR  OF  CHARITY. 


IS 


before  our  arrtval  in  England,  I. became 
an  entbusiastlc  convert  to  his  faith.  For 
a  few  weeks  I  managed  to  keep  my 
change  of  religion  a  secret  from  the  rest 
of  the  family;  for  I  had  not  courage  to 
brave  the  storm  of  anger  which  I  feared 
would  follow  its  avowal.  But  they  soon 
learned  it;  and  then  my  father  stormed 
and  raved,  Captain  Travers  absolutely 
entreated  me  on  his  knees«  Lulu  wept 
and  implored;  but  all  was. in  vain.  I  re- 
mained firm.  Seeing  I  was  not  to  be 
moved,  my  father  at  last  sternly  bade 
me  to  leave  his  house.  With  a  heavy 
heart,  indeed,  I  left  .my  home — the  last 
ivords  I  heard  from  Captain  Travers  be- 
ing a  terrible  oath  that  he  would  be  le- 
venged  on  the  wily  Jesuit  who  had 
weaned  me  from  the  faith  of  my  fathers. 
I  sought  and  found  a  home  with  the  Sis- 
ters of  Cnarity,  and  for  a  while  heard 
nothing  of  the  others;  until  one  day  I 
read  in  the  paper  that  "Richard  Vernon, 
lij^sq..  and  his  niece  h|d  left  in  the  Water 
Witch  for  New  Orleans."  I  had  not  ex- 
pected my  fault  would  be  so  severely 
punished.  I  never  dreamed  for  a  mo- 
ment they  would  have  left  me  alone  in  a 
strange  land ;  and  for  a  while  I  was  in- 
iconsolable.  But  the  kindness  and  affec- 
tion of  the  good  Sisters  somewhat  con- 
BOTed  me;  and  at  length  I  grew,  if  not 
happy,  at  least  content.  Of  Frederick 
TFravers  I  had  never  heard  since  the  day 
*  we  parted. 

"One  evening  I  repaired  to  a  neighbor- 
ing cathedrat,  and,  feeling  a  delicious 
pleasure  in  the  holy  quiet  of  the  place,  1 
did  not  leave  until  near  dark.  As  I  went 
out,  I  overtook  Father  John,  and,  wish- 
ing to  cons^t  him  about  something,  we 
walked  on  together.  Suddenly,  there  was 
the  report  of  a  pistol  behind  us.  With  a 
groan,  Father  John  fell  at  my  feet,  wel- 
tering in  blood.  My  piercing  shrieks 
s'oon  collected  a  crowd,  and  the  assassin. 
Who  had  turned  to  fly,  was  soon  cap- 
tuf  e|d.  As  he  was  led  past,  I  looked  upi 
and,  to  my  unspeakable  horror,  recog- 
nized Captain  Travers. 

"Father  John  was  borne  to  a  neigh- 
boring house  and  a  surgeon  sent  for — 
who,  to  the  great  joy  of  all,  pronounced 
the  wound  dangerous,  but  not  mortal. 
The  constant  care  and  attention  of  the 
jjgood  people  of  the  house  soon  restored 


him  to  health  once  more.  The  trliU  <A 
the  assassin  came  on;  but,  as  Father 
John  refused  to  appear  against  him,  he 
was  discharged,  and,  as  it  was  reported, 
(luitted  England  immediately  for  his  na- 
tive land.  ^- 

"Three  months  more  passed  aw&y,  and 
I  still  remained  with  the  good  Sisters  of 
Charity.  I  had  not  taken  tne  veil,  but  I 
often  assisted  the  nUns  in  tending  the 
hospital  patients  and  visiting  the  sick. 

"One  nigHt  a  man  was  brought  to  the 
hospital  horribly  mutilated  and  in  a  dy- 
ing state.  He  had  been  engaged  in  a 
brawl  in  a  gambling  saloon,  and  waa 
stabbed  by  his  adversary.  Some  chari- 
table persons  brought  him  to  the  hospi- 
tal, but  it  was  too  late.  Every  breath 
pumped  the  life-blood  from  a  ghastly 
wound  in  his  head.  I  knelt  by  his  side  to 
wipe  the  clotted  gore  from  his  face.  He 
slowly  opened  his  glazing  eyes  and  fixed 
them  with  a  wild,  maniacal  glare  on  .my 
face.  Suddenly  he  raised  himself,  with 
a  last  convulsive  effort,  on  his  elbow  and 
shrieked,  'Alma!'  Then,  with  a  choking 
gasp  for  breath,  he  fell  back,  dead.  But 
I  had  recognized  him.  It  was  Frederick 
Travers." 

The  nun  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  while  her  slight  figure  quivered 
convulsively  at  the  remembrance  of  that 
terrible  scene.  Then,  lifting  her  pale 
face,  she  went  on  hurriedly : 

"There  is  but  little  more  to  tell.  They 
buried  him  in  a  little  ^English  church- 
yard, and  I — I  became  a  Sister  of  Char- 
ity. My  father  died  a  year  ago,  leaving 
all  his  wealth  to  Lulu.  May  heaven 
grant  her  a  long  and  happy  life  to  en- 
joy it!" 

"And  oh.  Sister,  can  you  be  happy 
here,  always  by  the  loathsome  bedside  of 
dying  paupers,  leading  tHTs  self-sacrific- 
ing, this  laborious  life?"  1  cried  out. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  am  happy;  for  I  know 
I  am  doing  my  duty,"  she  answered,  ear- 
nestly. 

"And  Father  John?"  I  inquired,  after  a 
pause. 

"Saved  your  life  just  now,  my  dear," 
she  answered,  smiling. 

She  stooped  to  kiss  me.  The  next  mo- 
ment she  was  gone.  We  have  never  met 
since. 


t;;*;V.»'-<-'^,-  ■ 


,t.^-f,y...f..ff.i--Ji.  --ft  *;  - 


CARRIES  BRIDAL. 


By  Mrs.   MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 

AuthorqfA  Wonderful  Woman,"  "  A  Terrible  Secret,"  "  The  Mystery  at  Blaokwood  Qranae," 

"Sir  Noel's  Heir,"  Eto.,  Etc.  ^  ' 


I,  ■ . 


A  sweet,  pretty  little  girl  was  Carrie 
Fay.  None  of  your  wonderful  beauties, 
you  know,  so  transcendently  lovely  that 
all  creation  falls  in  love  with  them  at 
first  sight,  but  a  pretty  little  thing,  with 
merry,  blue  eyes  and  wavy  brown  hair 
and  rose-tinted  cheeks,  and  red,  laugh- 
ing lips,  and  the  dearest,  prettiest  little 
form  ever  you  saw  in  your  life.  Then 
Carrie  had  such  winning  ways,  such 
sweet  smiles  and  gentle  words  for  every 
one,  except  her  beaux,  that  it  is  no  won- 
der she  was  the  prime  favorite  of  every- 
body in  Ashfield.  She  was  especially 
fond  of  old  men  and  women — so  fond,  in 
fact,  that  half  the  claimants  foi*  her 
hand  could  have  strangled  all  the  old 
people  in  the  village  from  sheer  jealousy. 

Carrie,  of  course,  had  plenty  of  lovers 
kneeling  at  her  feet  and  vowing  ever- 
lasting fidelity,  while  she  laughed  in 
their  face.  The  house  of  Deacon  Fay 
was  besieged  bj'  wearers  of  broadcloth 
from  morning  till  night,  to  the  great  an- 
noyance of  that  orthodox  pillar  of  the 
church.  But,  seeing  that  Carrie  laughed 
at  them  all  alike,  and  seemed  to  have  no 
intention  of  falling  in  love  with  any  of 
tnem,  the  worthy  deacon  made  up  his 
mind  that  for  the  present  at  least  he 
would  "grin  and  bear  it." 

Carrie  and  I  were  fast  friends.  We 
had  gone  to  school  together  when  chil- 
dren, played  truant  together,  and  got 
punished  together  —  except,  sometimes, 
V  hen  my  brother  Hugh,  by  some  plausi- 
ble story,  got  us  oft,  or  took  our  punish- 
ment on  himself.  And  on  these  occa- 
sions Carrie  would  throw  her  arms 
around  his  neck  with  her  usual  impul- 
siveness and  exclaim: 

"Oh,  Hugh,  you're  such  a  good  boy, 
and  I  do  love  you  more  than  anybody 
else  In  the  world!" 

Hugh,  however,  who  had  a  true  boyish 


dislike  of  caresses,  would  disengage  him- 
self and  push  her  away  with  a  gruff: 

"Bother!" 

But  the  Fates  had  ordained  that  we 
should  part.  I  was  sent  to  a  French 
academy  to  be  "finished,"  Hugh  obtained 
a  midshipman's  appointment,  and  Carrie 
remained  in  Ashfield.  Five  years  passed 
ere  we  met  again,  and  now  behold  me 
lying  on  a  sofa  i»  Carrie's  room,  car- 
ressing  a  hideously  ugly  little  terrier, 
while  his  mistress  sits  before  me  re- 
counting her  adventures  since  we  parted 
last. 

"And  so  you  haven't  got  married  yet, 
Sue?"  said  Carrie.  "I  expected  you 
would  have  been  Mrs.  Somebody-or- 
other  long  before  this,  and  here  you 
come  back  a  dashing  city  girl,  it  is  true, 
but  plain  Susi.e  Ford  after  all!" 

"Nothing  wonderful  in  that,  my  dear. 
There  never  was  a  man  born  yet  half 
good  enough  for  me.  I  intend  to  be  an 
independent  old  maid,  and  when  I  die 
I'll  leave  my  money  to  found  a  hospital 
for  superannuated  dogs  and  cats.  I'm 
fond  of  puppies  of  all  sorts,  except  those 
running  on  two  legs." 

"Sour  grapes,  Sue,  nothing  else;  some- 
body's jilted  you,  and,  for  spite,  you  rail 
against  the  whole  sex.  Come,  now,  con- 
fess; you've  been  in  love  and" — 

"Never,  as  I  am  a  sinner!  I  scorn  the 
accusation.  But  you,  with  more  beaux 
than  I  could  shake  a  stick  at,  why  ain't 
you  a  'blessed  bride,'  eh?" 

"Oh,  well,  because  I  don't  want  to  be 
married — at  least,  not  yet.  I  think  it's 
horrid.  And  the  men — well,  I  declare, 
of  all  the  silly  looking,  creatures  imag- 
inable, a  man  in  love  is  the  most  intol- 
erable. There  was  Captain  Lucas,  now; 
I  thought  him  a  splendid  fellow  before 
I  got  acquainted  with  him — so  grave  and 
stately,  and  dignified,  and  all  that.  Well, 
I  got  an  introduction  to  him  and  for  a 


CARRIE'R  BRIDAL. 


i 


15 


while  we  got  along  swimmingly  to- 
gether; but  at  last  he  took  it  into  his 
head  to  fall  in  love  with  me.  I  never 
suspected  such  a  catastrophe  at  all,  until 
one  night  he  knelt  down  at  my  feet  and 
began  telling  me  I  was  an  'adorable  crea- 
ture,' and,  just  at  that  moment,  his  pants 
succumbed  to  the  pressure  of  his  knees. 
I  burst  out  in  laughter,  and  the  stately 
captain,  springing  to  his  feet  and  cast- 
ing one  look  of  horror  at  his  ruined  un- 
mentionables, fled  from  the  spot,  and  I 
have  never  seen  him  since. 

"Then^  there  was  Dr.  Stuart,  the  hand- 
somest man  of  my-  acquaintance,  who 
went  to  'pop  the  question'  and  got  dread- 
fully confused,  stuttered  and  stammered, 
and  blushed  red  and  purple  and  white, 
and  all  the  colors  of  the  rainbow.  Ac- 
tually, the  bewildering  doctor  was  trem- 
bling and  blushing  before  poor  little  me. 
Now,  I  don't  mind  a  girl's  blushing  now 
and  then.  I  rather  like  it  than  other- 
wise; but  to  see  a  man — a  lord  of  crea- 
tion— as  red  in  the  face  as  a  boiled  lob- 
ster, all  his  dignity  oozing  out  of  the 
toes  of  his  boots,  and  looking  like  some- 
body about  to  be  hanged  for  sheep  steal- 
ing— oh,  horror!  I  was  disenchanted  on 
the  spot,  and  never  could  bear  the  sight 
of  the  doctor  since. 

"Then  there  was  Mr.  Adolphus  Per- 
simmon Byron,  a  literary  character,  who 
wrote  pathetic  love  tales  and  melancholy 
verses  for  the  Ashfleld  Lightning  Bug. 
He  used  to  come  here  rainy  days  and 
bring  his  pathetic  poems  with  him  and 
read  them  aloud  to  me.  I  was  always 
glad  to  see  him,  I'm  sure,  for  he  reg- 
ularly set  me  sound  asleep  before  he  got 
to  the  end  of  the  second  verse,  which 
was  just  what  I  wanted.  I  had  no  idea 
he'd  ever  fall  in  love  with  me,  poor 
thing!  or  I'd  have  told  him  beforehand 
it  was  a  waste  of  ammunition.  Bat  one 
day  he  handed  nie  a  copy  of  verses,  and, 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  implored  mc  to 
read  it  and  answer  favorably.  It  was 
a  heart-rending  proposal  of  his  heart 
and  hand  and  fortune,  the  last  item 
being  invested  in  a  railway  near  the 
North  Pole,  in  a  region  y-et  to  be  dis- 
covered. There  were  most  awful,  ter- 
rifying hints  of  arsenic,  ratbane  and 
drowning  if  I  refused;  but  refuse  I  did, 
in  elegant  verse,  of  which  the  following 
is  a  copy: 

"  'Your  heart,  your  hand  and  your  for- 
tune you  offer— 

And  truly,  dear  sir,  'tis  a  irenerous  prof- 
fer; 


But  as  I  can't  think  to  deprive  you  of  all, 
I'll    take    the    last-mentioned,    though    I 

fear  it's  but  small. 
So  send  on  your  fortune  without  more 

delay- 
It  will  ne'er  be  refused  by  your  friend, 

"'Carrie  Fay.'  " 

"Oh!  stop!  stop!  you  wicked  little  flln! 
Do  you  really  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 
have  become  such  a  wicked  trifler  with 
the  gentlemen's  hearts?" 

"Gentlemen's  hearts!  Come,  I  like 
that!  As  if  anything  encased  in  broad- 
cloth ever  had  a  heart.  No,  my  dear, 
there  is  nothing  but  a  cavity  filled  full 
of  vanity,  somewhere  under  their  watcli 
pocket,  in  the  place  where  the  heart 
ought  to  be.  Bless  you!  it  does  them 
good  to  take  the  conceit  out  of  'em.  I 
believe  I  was  made  for  the  salvation  of 
them  all." 

"Come,  now,  Carrie,  be  sensible; 
among  all  your  suitors  is  there  not  one 
whose  affection  you  return?" 

"Not  one,  'pon  honor!  I  wouldn't  give 
two  stra-TTs  for  the  whole  blessed  lot  of 
them." 

"And  you  were  never  in  love?" 

"Never.  Oh,  I  mean  since  your  brother 
Hugh  left  me  to  w£ar  the  willow.  You 
know  how  zealously  I  paid  my  distresses 
to  him,  and  how  ungratefully  he  rejected 
them.  Even  when  he  went  away  his 
'last  speech  and  confession'  was  adding 
insult  to  injury.  There  I  was,  with  my 
arms  round  his  neck,  hugging  and  cling- 
ing to  him  like  a  chestnut  burr,  and  cry- 
ing till  you  couldn't  see  ^n  eye  in  my 
head.  And  what  do  you  think  was  his 
return?  Why,  he  pushed  me  away  and 
told  me  to  'go  off  and  not  make  such  a 
little  goose  of  myself,'  and  there  he  left 
me  whimpering  on  the  ground." 

"The  hard-hearted  monster!"  I  replied, 
unable  to  repress  a  laugh  at  Carrie's 
dolorous  look  and  tone.  "Well,  he'll  be 
here  in  a  week  or  two,  I  expect,  and  you 
will  have  a  chance  of  making  him  apol- 
ogize for  his  rudeness." 

"Oh,  is  he  coming  home?"  cried  Carrie, 
clapping  her  hands.  "How  glad  I  am! 
Won't  I  fix  him,  though?  I  perfectly 
dote  on  sailors—especially  midshipmen." 

I  left  Carrie  and  walked  slowly  home- 
ward, thinking  about  nothing  in  partic- 
ular, according  to  my  usual  habit,  when, 
just  as  I  entered  the  door  of  my  resi- 
dence, I  was  confronted  by  an  individual 
six  feet  high,  dressed  in  "gorgeous 
array,"  and  glittering  with  brass  but- 
tons.   I  felt  sure  I  had  seen  that  hand- 


d 


16 


CARRIE'H  BRIDAL. 


it  ii  ; ' 

i'.  j; 

■;■'' 


w 


«;■; 


-iV;" 


■4 
I  If '^ 

I' 


some  face  and  those  wicked  black  eyes 
and  glossy  dark  locks  somewhere  before, 
but  ere  I  could  call  memory  to  my  aid,  I 
was  clasped  in  his  arms,  while  he  eagerly 
exclaimed: 

"Susie,  Susie,  little  sister,  don't  you 
know  me?" 

"Why,  Hugh!  my  goodness,  Hugh;  can 
this  be  you?  I'm  so  glad!"  I  exclaimed, 
in  delighted  surprise. 

"Yes,  this  is  me,  nobody  else.  Hugh 
Ford,  Esq.,  U.  S.  N.,  past  midshipman," 
was  his  concise  and  descriptive  answer. 

"Why,  how  tall  you  are,  and  how 
handsome  you've  grown,"  said  I,  hold- 
ing him  off  and  surveying  him  with  ad- 
miration, "and  what  a  splendid  mus- 
tache you've  got." 

"Wish  1  could  return  the  compliment, 
sis."     ' 

"When  did  you  come?" 

"About  an  hour  ago.  They  told  me 
you  were  somewhere  in  the  village,  and 
I  was  about  to  go  cruising  in  search  of 
you,  when  you  dropped  ini" 

"Yes.  I  was  up  with  Carfie  Fay.  You 
remember  little  Carrie,  don't  you?" 

"What!  The  little  girl  with  the  blue 
eyes  and  yellow  hair,  who  used  to  be 
BO  fond  of  me?  I  should  think  I  did. 
She  used  to  half-strangle  me  with  her 
caresses,"  he  replied,  coolly,  stretching 
himself  indolently  on  a  lounge. 

"Take  care  the  tables  are  not  turned. 
Master  Hugh.  Carrie  is  one  of  the  pret- 
tiest girls  in  Ashfleld,  which  is  noted  far 
and  near  for  its  pretty  girls." 

"Then,  in  that  case,  she  may  be  as 
fond  of  me  now  as  she  pleases,  and 
caress  me  whenever  she  likes.  I  won't 
oppose  it  in  the  least." 

"You  incorrigibly  yain  wretch.  If  you 
had  heard  her  a  while  ago  it  would  have 
taken  the  nonsense  out  of  you.  We  were 
speaking  of  you,  you  know." 

"Yes;  good,  no  doubt." 

"No,  indeed,  we  wer'n't.  You  don't 
catch  Carrie  speaking  well  of  you,"  said 
I,  thinking,  inwardly,  if  she  admired 
cool  impudence  she  would  likely  take  a 
desperate  fancy  to  him  pretty  soon. 

Late  that  evening  I  went  over  to  see 
her,  and,  without  telling  her  of  Hugh's 
arrival,  asked  her  to  come  home  with 
me. 

We  walked  across  the  fields  together, 
Carrie  drawing  on  her  gloves  and  chat- 
ting gaily.  Suddenly,  in  the  middle  of 
an  animated  speech,  she  gave  her  kid 
glove  a  desperate  pull  and  tore  it  in 
pieces.    • 


"There,  now,  look  at  that!"  she  ex- 
claimed, ruefully.  "I  paid  a  'dollar  and 
a  half  for  these  yesterday.  I  wish  to 
goodness  I  had  a  chance  to  kiss  some- 
body and  so  get  a  new  pair." 

"Why,  how  would  that  get  you  a  new 
pair?"  said  I. 

"What  a  piece  of  simplicity  you  are! 
Do  you  not  know,  if  you  kiss  a  sleeping 
gentleman,  without  his  knowledge,  you'll 
get  a  pair  of  new  gloves?  The  first 
chance  I  get  I'm  going  to  try  it." 

As  she  spoke  I  opened  the  parlor  door 
and  entered.  The  room  was  darkened 
to  exclude  the  heat;  and  there,  on  the 
sofa,  lay  Hugh,  as  sound  asleep  ns 
though  I  had  not  seen  him  with  his  eyes 
wide  open  when  we  first  entered. 

"There's  a  chance  for  you,  then,"  said 
I,  pointing  to  the  sleeper. 

"Who  is  it?"  said  Carrie,  who,  on  en- 
tering the  darkened  room,  could  not  dis- 
tinguish objects  very  clearly;  "your 
Uncle  John?" 

"Who  else  would  it  be?"  said  I,  eva- 
sively. 

"Then  here  goes!"  exclaimed  Carrie, 
in  a  tone  of  suppressed  delight,  as  she 
tip-toed  forward,  and,  stooping  over  the 
sleeper,  imprinted  a  kiss  on^his  fore- 
head.        ^ 

In  a  moment  she  was  encircled  by  a 
strong  arm,  and  her  salute  returned  with 
compound  interest  by  some  one  who  was 
not  Uncle  John.  Surprise  at  first  held 
her  spell-bound;  then  recognizing  her 
former  playmate  in  the  dashing  mid- 
shipman, she  broke  from  his  arms  and 
fled,  like  a  startled  deer,  from  the  room. 

Suppressing  my  laughter,  I  followed 
her,  and  found  her  sitting  at  the  foot  of 
the  garden,  with  her  face  hidden  in  her 
hands. 

"Come,  Carrie,"  said  I,  gaily,  "you 
shall  have  the  gloves,  though  you  did 
kiss  the  nephew'  instead  of  the  uncle. 
Mistakes  will  happen  in  the  best  of  fam- 
ilies, you  know." 

She  raised  her  head  and  laughed, 
though  her  cheek  was  deep  crimson. 

"It  was  too  bad  of  you  to  deceive  me 
so,  Susie.  Wliat  will  he  think  of  me? 
Oh,  Susie,  what  will  he  think  of  me?" 
she  said,  earnestly  clasping  her  hands. 

I  burst  out  laughing. 

"Why,  he'll  be  very  much  disappointed 
when  he  finds  your  affectionate  embrace 
\vas  not  intended  for  him.  But  here  he 
comes  to  plead  his  own  cause,  and,  as  be 
doesn't  need  any  assistant  counsel,  1*11 
vainish." 


I 

Kelv 

rays 

thin 

atte 

they 

rily 

nev< 

Tl 


i 


CARRIE' it  nUIUAh, 


« 


le  ex- 
r  and 
Ish  to 
some- 
new 

are! 
replug 
you'll 

flr&t 

•«  "1 

door 
veiled 
n  the 
>  fis 
eyes 

said 


Carrie  started  in  alarm  to  her  feet, 
with  the  intention  of  following  my  ex- 
ample, but  Hugh  was  by  her  Bide,  malt- 
ing ten  thousand  apologies  for  taking 
advantage  of  her  mistake. 

I  left  them  to  settle  the  matter  them- 
selves and  sauntered  off,  humming  to 
myself  and  gathering  cinnamon  roses.  I 
think  she  forgave  him,  for,  two  hours 
afterward,  when  he  escorted  her  home, 
they  were  laughing  and  chatting  as  mer- 
rily as  thougl  that  unlucky  blunder  had 
never  occurred. 

The  next  day  I  explained  the  matter 
to  Hugh,  who  charitably  wished  Carrie 
might  tear  her  gtove  and  make  a  similar 
mistake  every  day.  That  evening  a  pair 
of  tiny  lavender-hued  gloves  found  their 
way  to  the  deacon's,  accompanied  by  a 
beautiful  bouquet. 

Ifugh  had  received  long  leave  of  ab- 
sence, and  he  certainly  improved  it  by 
devoting  all  his  time  to  Carrie  Fay. 
Three  weeks  passed,  and,  in  spite  of  all 
my  entreaties  to  go  and  see  the  rest  of 
the  family  at  Cape  Maj^,  where  mamma 
and  the  girls  were  spending  the  dog- 
days,  he  still  lingered,  rusticating  at 
Ashfleld. 

"Now,  Hugh,  look  here,"  said  I,  one 
morning,  "here's  this  letter  from  mam- 
ma, and  listen  to  what  she  says: 

"'What  on  earth  is  the  matter  with 
Hugh,  my  love?  Is' he  bewitched  or 
what  attractions  can  there  be  for  him  in 
a  hum-drum  country* village  to  detain 
him  from  us?  Tell  him  to  come  imme- 
diately here — command  him.  Your  sis- 
tiers,  Maud  and  Eva,  are  quite  as  anxious 
to  see  him  as  I  am.  MisB  Rich*  the  old 
niillionaire's<  daughter,  is  here.  She  Is 
enormously  wealthy,  and  used  to  admire 
Hugh  very  much  as  a  boy.  If  he  plays 
his  cards  well  he  may  have  the  -richest 
bride  in  the  United  States.  Tell  him  to 
make  all  possible  haste.  Miss  Rich  begs 
to  be  remembered  to  him.'  "• 

^'Miss  Rich  be— hanged!"  exclaimed 
Mr.  Hugh,  in  a  passion.  "I  wish  my 
mother  would  not  take  upon  herself  the 
odious  character  of  matchmaker.  I 
won't  go." 

'"You  will  go,  Hugh,"  said  I,  firmly. 
"You  must  go.  No,  never  flash  up  so 
haughtily  at  that  word;  just  listen  pa- 
tiently for  a  moment.  Tell  me,  what 
is  it  keeps  you  here?" 

His  dark  cheek  flushed,  but  he  laughed'" 
and  answered  carelessly: 

"Why,  my  winsome  little  sister,  to  be 


sure,"  he  said,   twining  my  curls  over 
his  Angers. 

"Don't  talk  nonsense,  Hugh!  What 
would  mamma  and  the  girls  pay  If  they 
knew  you  stayed  here  making  love  to  a 
little  country  girl,  with  two  or  three 
thousand  dollar.s  for  her  fortune?" 

"Making  love!  Don't  be  a  fool.  Susie!" 
he  exclaimed,  almost  angrily,  getting  up 
and  pacing  the  floor. 

"Very  well,  sir;  perhaps  you  are  quite 
innocent,  but  your  long  moonlight  walks 
and  your  morning  rides  and  afternoon 
sails  look  most  suspiciously  like  it.  Now 
go  to  Cape  May  and  pay  your  respects  to 
mamma,  and  if  you  find  my  presence 
here  a  stronger  attraction  than  Miss 
Rich's  dollars  and  dimes,  why,  come 
back  to  me — that's  all." 

He  left  the  room  without  making  any 
reply,  and  I  saw  him  go  toward  Deacon 
Fay's  house.  Two  hours  after  he  re- 
turned, bade  us  all  a  hasty  good  -  by. 
vaulted  into  the  saddle  and  quitted  Ash- 
fleld. 

That  evening  I  went  over  to  see  Carrie. 
She  was  sitting  watching  the  moon-  ris- 
ing over  the  tops,  with  &  sad,  dreamy 
look  on  her  fair  face.  Her  parents  were 
present,  and  so  was  a  short,  fat,  pom- 
pous-looking old  man,  whom  the  deacon 
presented  to  me  as  Mr.  Rich,  whose 
daughter  mamma  wished  Hugh  to  marry. 

I  stayed  with  Carrie  all  the  evening, 
but  she  did  not  once  mention  Hugh's 
name.  Old  Mr.  Rich  seemed  struck  by 
her  beauty,  and  announced  his  intention 
of  spending  the  remainder  of  the  week 
with  them. 

That  '^veek  passed  and  the  next,  and 
still  he  remained;  and  the  people  whis- 
pered in  the  village  that  there  would 
soon  be  a  wedding  at  the  deacon's.  I 
had  heard  nothing  from  Hugh  since  his 
departure;  but,  in  a  dainty  note,  my 
fashionable  sister,  Eva,  gave  me  to  un- 
derstand that  he  was  decidedly  the  hand- 
somest man  at  Cape  May,  and  regarded 
with  favorable  eyes  by  the  "beauty  and 
heiress,"  Miss  Rich. 

One  evening,  as  I  entered  the  porch 
of  Deacon  Fay's  house,  I  heard  his  voice 
in  loud  and  angry  tones.  Ere  I  could 
retreat  the  following  words  met  my  ear: 

"I  tell  you,  Carrie  Fay,  I'll  have  none 
of  your  nonsense.  Old,  forsooth!  as  if 
that  made  any  matter.  You  must  and 
shall  marry  him  —  mind  that!  When 
young  Ford  was  here  I  let  him  spark 
around,  thinking  he  would  marry  you; 
but  now  he's  off  with  his  fashionable 


i 


i 


I",  r  ■ 


18 


CARRIE'S  BRIDAL. 


II 


family  at  somo  watering  place,  and  going 
to  be  married  to  some  great  lady.  So, 
no  more  whimpering.  I  trust  I  know 
my  duty  well  enough  to  provide  for  my 
daughter.  So  prepare  for  your  wedding 
as  soon  as  you  like." 

I  fled  from  the  house  Just  in  time  to 
avoid  meeting  the  deacon,  who  came 
stalking  out,  with  a  look  of  grim  deter- 
mination on  his  face. 

The  next  day,  as  I  sat  alone,  a  letter 
was  brought  me  in  the  handwriting  of 
Eva.    I  tore  it  open  and  read: 

"Dear  Sur:  Hugh  is  married  at  last. 
He  and  Sellne  Rich  were  united  this 
morning  and  everything  went  off  splen- 
didly. All  the  world  was  here  to  witness 
the  nuptials,  and  everybody  says  they 
never  saw  so  magnificent  an  affair. 
Celine  has  heard  some  absurd  report 
that  her  father  Is  going  to  marry  a 
country  girl  In  Ashfleld;  but,  of  course,  it 
cannot  be  true.  She  Insists,  however,  on 
going  there  to  see;  so  you  will  soon  have 
an  opportunity  of  beholding  your  new 
Bister.  Eva." 

Tlie  letter  fell  from  my  hand  and  1 
dropped  my  head  on  the  table  with  a 
groan.  A  touch  on  the  shoulder  startled 
me.  I  looked  vp  and  beheld  Carrie,  but 
so  pale  and  wil4  that  I  scarcely  knew 
her. 

"Susie,"  she  said,  "read  that." 

I  took  the  newspaper  she  held  and  saw 
In  flourishing  capitals  the  announcement 
of  the  marrlag©  of  Hugh  Ford  and  Celine 
Rich. 

"Oh,  Susie,"  she  cried,  passionately, 
"Is  it  true?" 

"Yes,"  I  said,  briefly.' 
.  "Then  God  help  m©!" 
.  There  was  such  utter  despair  In  her 
voice  that  Iw^s  startled.  Her  face  was 
deadly  white,  even  to  her  Tps,  and  such 
a  look  of  deep,  settled  apgulsh  I  never 
saw.in  human  eyes  before. 

"Dear  Carrie,"  said  I,  gently,  "what 
is  It?    Did  yoH  love  him?" 

"Oh,  Hugh!  Hugh!" 

That  wild;  mournful  cry  answered  me. 
I  passed  my  arms  around  her  waist  and 
^ould  have  drawn  her  down  beside  me, 
but  she  gently  released  herself,  and,  cov- 
ering her  face  with  her  hands,  stood  for 
a  time  silent  and  motionless.  Then 
looking  up,  she  said,  hurriedly: 

"Susie,  I  am  to  be  married  the  day 
after  to^morrowr..  "WTill  you  be  my  brides-, 
maid?"      ^  r  :■  , 
;  I  Stared  at  h^r  In  amazemeilt. 
:  "Married!    To  whoii^?"  ..^ 


"To  Mr.  Rich,"  she  said,  with  a  sort 
of  shudder. 

"That  old  man!  Oh,  Carrie!"  I  said, 
reproachfully, 

"Hush!  Oh,  hush,  Susie,  I  must!"  she 
cried,  wildly.  "Do  not  talk  to  me  now. 
I  cannot  bear  it.  Oh,  they  have  all 
talked  to  me  too  much.  1  am  going 
crazy,  I  think.    Susie,  you  will  come?" 

"Since  you  wish  it,  Carrie — yes." 

She  smiled  faintly,  as  if  to  thank  me, 
and  slowly  left  the  house. 

I  did  not  see  her  again  until  the  wed- 
ding morning.  She  was  in  her  room  and 
would  see  no  one — not  even  me;  but  that 
morning  she  came  down  like  a  spirit 
among  the  guests,  all  in  white,  and  with 
a  face  more  deathly  pale  than  any  bride 
ever  was  before. 

"I  am  tired,  take^  me  up  stairs,"  she 
said  to  me,  faintly,  when  the  ceremony 
was  over.  I  looked  and  was  unepaak- 
ably  shocked  to  see  the  light  had  died 
out  of  her  eyds,  the  bright  golden  hliift 
8«emed  even  to  have  faded  from  her 
hair. 

Supporting  her  with  my  arm,  I  led 
her  to  her  room.  She  seated  harself  by 
the  table,  and,  leaning  her  arm  upon  it, 
her  head  dropped  heavily  down.  .<..% 

Just  at  that  moment  the  sound  of  Car- 
riage wheels  arrested  my  attentlpn,  1 
ran  down  stairs,  and  there  In  the  parlor 
stood  Hugh  and  his  bride. 

Proud  man  as 'he  wao^  he  actually 
auailcd  before  the  look  I  gave  him.  His 
wife  was  talking  la  loud  and  angry  tones 
to  her  father. 

"Where  is  this  girl  you  have  mar- 
ried?" she  said,  1^  no  very  gentle  voice. 
"I  must  see  her." 

"She  Is  up  stairs,  madam,"  said  I, 
coldly;  "but  I  do  not  think  shie  is  a*fl« 
to  tjome  down." 

"Then  I  shall  go  up.  Come  with  me> 
Mr.  Ford,"  she  said,  passing  her  arni 
through  his  and  turning  to  follow  me. 
,  We  ascended  the  stairs.  Carrie  still 
Mt.ioaiOtlonless  by  the  table,  her  head 
resting  on  her  folded  arms.  I  stooped 
over  her  and  whispered  her  name,  but 
'  she  did  not  stir. 

"Carrie,"  said  I.  shaking  her  gently, 
"Hugh  is  here."  :     * 

Had  she  been  dying  that  name  would 
have  recalled  her  to  life;  but  now  it  fell 
unheeded.      .     , 

With  a -wild,  vague  fear  I  raised  her 
head.    The  golden-brown  hair  fell  heav- 
ily over  my  arm,  the  lids  were  closeul 
/  o^rer  :the  >iiro«^ry;bluie  eyesp,  a  smile  still ' 


CAKRlFl'a  BRIDAL. 


Iff 


lingered  on  the  sweet,  beautiful  lipB.  and 
on  her  bridal  day  her  aching  hetut  u.id 
found  rest. 

I  laid  her  down,  and,  waving  them 
back,  I  turned  sternly  to  Ce'.lne. 

"You  are  too  late,  madam,"  I  said,  bit- 
terly; "Yonr  reproaches  ^111  fall  un- 
heeded now.  Carrie  Fay  is  beyond  your 
power." 

"Dead!"  she  exclaimed,  with  a  shriek. 
"Dear  me,  how  shocking!  Do  take  me 
(town  stairs,  Mr.  Ford.  I  feel  as  though 
I  53hould  faint." 

"Disease  of  the  heart."  the  doctors 
said,  as  they  bent  over  the  lifeless  form. 

Down  in  the  village  churchyard,  where 
the  sunshine  falls  brightly  and  the 
sweet  aoutb  wind  comes  loaded  wltb  tbe 


odor  of  cinnamon  roses,  they  laid  Qarrle. 
No  cold,  white  monimient  niarkw  her 
losting  place,  but  a  majestic  willow  sighs 
mournfully  above  it,  and  drops  tears 
upon  the  roses  through  the  long  nights. 
And  in  the  hush  of  midnight  the  tall, 
dark  form  of  a  man  comes  here  to  wres- 
tle with  his  romorse  and  nnKulsh,  thiit 
t\9  world  dream«  not  he  has  ever  felt, 
lor 

"The  dnrk  eyes,  dim  with  wicplnif. 
Sparkle  'mid  the  crowd  again." 

And  to-night,  listening  to  the  bitter 
autumn  storm,  I  cannot  rest,  for  my 
thoughts  are  with  the  lone\y  sleeper  in 
tbe  cold  churchyard. 


I 


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Mr.  Mounter-ville. 


By  Mrs.    MAY  AGNES  FLEMING, 

Author  of'*  A  Womttrful  Woman,"  "  A    Terrible  Secret,"  "  The^Myntery  at  Blackwood  Graun,  " 
^  '*  Sir  NueVa  IMr,"  Ktc,  Etc. 


I  i 


pi  ! 


K  1 


'I  fl 


His  name  was  Mountervllle  — John 
Frederick  MounterviUe.  That  sounds  ro- 
mantic, doewn't  it?  lilie  the  hero  of  a 
high-pressure  novel,  you  know,  but  for 
all  that  he  wasn't  a  bit  romantic.  Fancy 
thlrty-flve  years,  five  feet  six,  two  hun- 
dred pounds  weight,  a  florid  complexion, 
and  sandy  whiskers,  and  point  out  the 
romance,  if  you  dare.  That  was  Mr.  J. 
F.  Mountervllle;  and  he  kept  the  large 
grocery  store  up  the  village,  and  sold 
kerosene,  and  liog's-lard,  and  pork,  and 
butter  and  r.-c!:.sses;  and  If  there's  any- 
thing romantic  or  .sentimental  in  all 
that,  T  shall  be  happy  tc  have  you  tell 
ihe  of  it.  How  he  ever  came  to  be  Mount- 
ervllle, the  gods  above  only  know.  If 
ever  Smith — Peter  or  Samuel — was  writ- 
ten In  a  "human  face  divine,"  it  was  In 
Mr.  Mounterville's,  But  for  all  that  it 
was  his  name,  real  and  bona  fide,  and 
had  been  his  father's  and  grandfather's 
before  kirn,  and  was  likely  to  be  his 
son's,  if  he  ever  got  that  far,  for  Mr. 
John  Frederick  Mountervllle,  grocer, 
was  a  bachelor.  And  that  is  how  I  come 
to  be  writing  about  him  to-day;  for,  of 
all  the  odd  things  that  ever  happened, 
the  oddest  was  that  this  man  should  go 
and  fall  in  love  with  me. 

You  see.  ma — ma's  a  widow,  and  I'm 
her  only  one,  and  we  keep  the  village 
school.  Ma  used  to  send  me  to  the  gro- 
cery store  for  butter,  and  sugar,  and  tea, 
and  coffee  of  every-day  life,  and  Mr. 
Mountervllle  used  to  wait  on  me  a  good 
deal,  and  make  pleasing  Jittle  remarks 
about  the  weather,  and  the  prices-cur- 
rent, and  our  school,  and  things  gener- 
ally. T  didn't  notice  it  myself,  at  first, 
that  there  was  any  display  'of  the  tender 
passion  in  all  this,  for  one  would  as  soon 
have  thought  of  a  kangaroo  In  love  as 
Mr.  Mountervllle;  but  Phil  Marks,  one 
of  the  clerks,  got  into  a  way  of  grinning 
knowingly   whenever  I   appeared,  and 


dodging  off  to  wait  on  some  other  t  \i;  - 
tomer,  and  leaving  me  to  "the  boss.  • 
And  then,  by-aud-by,  in  a  sheepish  and 
shanuS-faced  sort  of  way,  Mr.  Mountci- 
vIDo  took  to  making  me  presents.  Not 
bouquets  of  hothousa  exotics,  or  Tenny- 
Bon  in  gold  and  azure,  or  illuminatHl 
sheets  of  music,  but  nice  little  cakes  ol" 
cheese,  and  pounds  of  roll  butter,  aiul- 
drums  of  figs,  and  bottles  of  pickles,  and 
such  like,  until  gradually  my  eyes  began 
to  open  to  the  truth,  and  I  realized  the 
staggering  fact  that  my  black  eyes  and 
I  raven*  tresses  had  wrought  havoc  inside 
Mr.  Mounterville's  capacious  vest. 

When  the  thrilling  conviction  first 
dawned  upon  me  I  stood  stunned,  speecti- 
less,  for  about  ten  minutes  and  a  half. 
Then  I  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair, 
and  laid  my  head  back,  and  laughed,  and 
laughed,  and  laughed,  and  laughed,  until 
ma  came  running  up,  and  stood  before 
me,  with  tears  in  her  eyes,  and  the  cam- 
phor bottle  in  her  hand,  thinking  It  was 
hysterics. 

"Go  away,  ma,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  I 
could  speak,  "it  isn't  that— I  mean  hys- 
terics; it's  Mr.  Mountervllle." 

"Mr.  Mountervllle!  Whatever  has 
Mr.  Mountervllle  done?" 

"Nothing  much,  only — oh!  good  gra- 
cious!"— another  paroxysm — "only,  ma, 
can't  you  see  through  the  little  cheeses, 
and  l-olls  of  butter,  and  figs,  and  sau- 
sages, yet?" 

"See  through  them,  Lucinda?  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"Mean!  Why,  ma,  look  here;  a  bat 
might  see  it —  Mr.  Mounterville's  in 
love!" 

"What!  Lucinda,  my  child,"  with  a 
look  of  horror,  "you  never  mean  to  say 
the  unhappy  man  has  fallen  in  love  with 
me?" 

"No,  ma;  not  with  you  —  only  with, 
me." 


MR.  MOVSTKItVILhE. 


"Luclnda!" 

"It's  true,  ma:  It  has  rushed  upon  me 
uU  at  on(;o«  like  an  Alpine  avalanche! 
Cheeses  and  sauMagcs  arc  Mr.  Mounter- 
vine's  way  of  breathing  hlH  houI'h  deep- 
cHt  feelinKH.  I  know  what  Phil  Marku'H 
grins  mean  now;  and  I've  only  to  suy  the 
word  and  I'm  certain  to  change  the  ple- 
beian name  of  Thompson  for  the  hlgh- 
Houndlng  cognomen  of  MountervlUe — 
M.H.  John  Frederick  MountervlUe;  U'h 
lovely.  Isn't  It?" 

"My  dear,"  said  ma,  thoughtfully,  "you 
might  do  worse." 

"Yes,  die  an  old  maid — the  most  horri- 
ble of  all  earthly  dooms.  And  I  was 
twenty-seven  last  birthday;  and  when  a 
lovely  female  comes  to  be  twenty-seven 
It's  time  she  ceased  to  be  prrtlcular. 
Well,  ma,  I'll  think  about  it." 

And  I  did.  I  went  slowly  and  thought- 
fully up  stairs  to  my  own  room,  and  sat 
down  by  the  window  to  turn  It  over.  Mr. 
MountervlUe  waa  rich;  selling  lard  and 
molasses  may  not  be  romantic,  but  it's 
remunerative — and  Mr.  MountervlUe  had 
made  money  out  oT  it.  He  lived  in  a 
handsome  white  wooden  mansion  up  the 
village;  he  kept  a  horse  and  buggy  in 
summer,  and  a  horse  and  sleigh  in  win- 
ter, and  a  cook,  and  a  housemaid,  and  a 
boy,  and  two  clerks.  Could  any  right- 
thinking  schoolmistress  of  seven-and- 
twenty-odd  long  for  more?  Surely  my 
lucky  star  had  ridden  high  in  the  heav- 
ens the  day  Mr.  MountervlUe  first  cast 
upon  me  the  eye  of  desire.  Yet,  oh,  my 
prophetic  soul!  was  this  what  the  dreams 
of  my  youth  had  come  to!  I,  who  had 
once  reveled  in  the  gorgeous  delusion  of 
wedding  a  Count  Lara,  a  corsair,  a 
giaour,  a  veiled  prophet!  Hud  not  my 
Ideal,  all  my  days,  been  of  a  grand,  un- 
approachable creature,  with  swarthy 
skin,  and  ferocious  whiskers,  and  a  cim- 
etar  by  his  sWe?  A  man  who  would 

"Leave  a  Corsair's  name  to  other  times, 
Linked  with  one  virtue  and  a  thousand 
crimes." 

And  here  I  had  fallen  into  this!  Come 
to  think  over  a  two-hundred-pound  gro- 
cer, with  sandy  sj.dewhlskers,  and  eyes 
like  pinholes,  as  a  very  desirable  match 
Indeed. 

Nine  o'clbck  struck,  school  came  In, 
and  I  twitched  my  collar  and  apron 
straight,  glanced  at  my  black  eyes  that 
had  done  such  execution,  and  descended 
to  teach  the  ybung  Idea  how  to  shoot. 
But  I  was  in  a  state  of  pensive  abstrac- 


tion ail  day,  and  set  suniB,  •nd  wrote 
copies,  and  slapped  little  girls  and  boys, 
in  H  frame  of  pleaHing  melancholy,  with  ■ 
my  thoughts  on  the  white  wooden  man- 
sion up  the  village,  and  the  cook,  and 
the  sleigh,  and  the  chambermaid,  and 
the  buggy,  ami  piles  and  plle.-i  of  new 
dresses.  Liefore  I  dismissed  the  forty 
cherubs  on  my  roll  cull  (fond  of  crying 
as  the  other  cherubim).  I  had  miide  up 
my  mind,  with  a  gentle  sigh,  to  bury  In 
oblivion  tli"  image  of  my  Pay  aim  hero, 
and  accept  Mr.  MountervlUe  as  »oon  as 
he  should  scirew  his  courage  to  the  stick- 
ing point  and  propose. 

I  think  ma  must  have  been  revolving 
the  matter  in  her  mind,  too,  and  arriveii 
at  a  similar  conclusion,  for  Just  before 
dusk  she  says  to  me: 

"Luclnda,  love,  the  molasses  is  out, 
and  there's  no  gingerbread.  Suppose  you 
take  the  pall,  dear,  and  step  over  to  Mr. 
Mountervllle's?" 

I  was  nothing  loath.  I  put  on  my  best 
bonnet,  threw  my  shawl  picturesquely 
over  my  .shoulders,  took  the  tin  pall,  and 
departed. 

It  was  a  lovely  evening.  The  month 
was  February,  and  the  snow  lay  piled 
high  and  white.  There  was  no  wind,  and 
a  crystal  moon  was  rising  like  a  shield 
of  silver  over  the  black  pine  woods,  and 
the  sparkling  stars  cleft  fro.sty  and  keen. 
The  white  road  glittered  as  if  sown  with 
diamonds;  and  the  village  llghtsgleamed 
and  twinkled  athwart  the  hazy  blue  at- 
mosphere. All  nature  was  conducive  to 
tender  muifing  as  I  went  along  for  mo- 
lasses, and  my  heart  was  melted  within 
me  like  a  roll  of  Mr.  Mountervllle's  but- 
ter. 

Mr.  Mountervllle's  shop  was  one  blaze 
of  illumination,  for  three  kerosene 
lamps,  suspended  in  mid  air,  like  the 
sword  of — What's-hls-name.  The  two 
counters  were  crowded  with  customers, 
and  Phil  Marks  and  Sam  Wilson,  thn 
other  clerk,  were  busier  than  nailers, 
and  there  was  an  overpowering  perfume 
of  coffee,  and  kerosene,  and  codfish,  and 
apples  that  reminded  me  of  "Ceylon'a 
spicy  breezes,"  and  "summer  isles  of 
Eden  In  purple  spheres  of  sea."  And 
there  was  Mr.  MountervlUe,  waiting, 
with  superhuman  energy,  on  three  old 
women  at  once,  and  tying  up  quarter 
pounds'^of  tea<  and  ounces  of  starch  and 
pepper,  with  a  rapidity  that  waa  the 
very  poetry  of  motion,  and  made  me 
wink  again — Mr.  MountervlUe,  who 
bounced  away  from  the  three  old  women 


-,■,.• 


22 


MR.  MOUKTERVILLK. 


r 


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R* 


and  was  confronting  me  over  the  counter 
in  a  flash,  with  a  heavenly  smile  illu- 
minating his  face. 

"Good  evening,  Miss  Lucinda,  good 
evening.  What  can  I  do  for  you  this 
evening?" 

Now,  if  any  of  my  pupils,  in  making  a 
remark  to  me,  had  put  three  "evenings" 
so  close  together,  I  should  most  certain- 
ly have  rapped  them  over  the  head  for 
it.  But  Mr.  Mounterville  was  different. 
1  could  bear  tautology  from  him,  and 
smile  over  it.  A  man  who  keeps  three 
servants  and  two  clerks  need  not  stand 
on  trifles  of  rhetoric. 

"Half  a  gallon  of  molasses,  if  you 
please.  Yes,  it  is  a  lovely  evening,  Mr. 
Mounterville.  I  declare,  I  was  almost 
sorry  the  walk  over  was  so  short.  Thy 
don't  you  take  advantage  of  this  lovely 
weather  and  call  and  see  us?  Ma  was 
just  remarking  to  me,  she  hadn't  seen 
you  she  didn't  know  when." 

Mr.  THounterville's  florid  complexion 
turned  absolutely  crimson  with  delight. 

"Did  she.  Miss  Lucinda?  Now,  that 
was  real  kind  of  your  ma.  You  see, 
we've  been  pretty  busy,  right  straight 
along,  in  the  shop  here,  and  I  ain't  ranch 
of  a  visiting  man,  anj'way." 

"Oh!  of  course,  business  before  pleas- 
ure; but  you  must  try  and  make  an  ex- 
ception in  our  favor.  How  do  you  sell 
these  pickeled  mackerel?  Ma's  so  fond 
of  mackerel." 

"Miss  Lucinda,"  Mr.  Mounterville 
cried,  trembling  with  eagerness  like  a 
calves'-foot  jelly,  "might  I  send  her  over 
a  dozen,  just  to  try  'em?  Sam'll  take 
them,  and  the  molasses,  too;  and  if 
you  wait  a  minute,  until  I  wash  my 
hands  and  take  off  my  apron,  I'll  see 
you  home." 

A  dirty  apron  worn  habitually  around 
a  lover's  waist  can  hardly  be  less  than  a 
poisoned  dart  to  the  breast  of  any  young 
woman  of  refinement.  But  I  smothered 
my  feelings  and  smiled.  Yes,  I  paw  Mr. 
Mounterville  take  off  his  apron  and  wipe 
two  very  dirty  hands  on  it,  and  I  smiled! 

Sain  winked  at  Phil  as  he  seized  the 
mackerel  and  the  molasses.  It  was  with 
the  eye  next  Phil;  but  I  saw  it,  and  I 
folded  my  shawl  around  me  like  a  Ra- 
man toga,  and  drew  myself  up,  and 
turned  my  back  upon  that  young  man, 
with  a  solemnity  and  asperity  of  aspect, 
I'm  inclined  to  think,  he  won't  forget  in 
a  hurry. 

There  were  dozens  of  customers  in  the 
shop,  but,  with  a  wild  and  reckless  dis- 


regard of  popularity  and  fractional  cur- 
rency, Mr.  Mounterville  shuffled  them 
over  to  PhiU  and  stalked  majestically 
out  into  the  night,  with  me  by  his  side. 
He  didn't  offer  me  his  arm  (to  take  a 
gentleman's  arm  in  our  village  is  equiv- 
alent to  a  binding  engagement),  but  we 
trod  along,  side  by  side,  slowly  and  sen- 
timentally., with  that  Sam  on  ahead, 
stopping  every  now  and  then  to  shift  the 
molasses  and  mackerel  from  one  hand  to 
the  other,  and  take  a  backward  glance 
at  us. 

The  night  was  lovely — I  think  I  made 
the  remark  before.  A  profound  stillness 
reigned,  and  everything  in  the  firma- 
ment above  and  the  earth  beneath  was 
conducive  to  a  tender  declaration.  My 
heart  throbbed,  as  the  hedrt  of  a  spot- 
less maiden  should  throb,  the  first  time 
the  question  is  popped;  and  Mr.  Mount- 
erville, with  his  hat  rather  on  one  side, 
as  he  likes  to  wear  it,  and  a  pungent 
odor  of  codfish  and  onions  about  him, 
looked  up  at  the  moon  with  one  eye 
shut,  and  a  plaintive  expression  of  coun- 
tenance. 

"Nice,  isn't  it?"  remarked  Mr.  Mount- 
erville— we  had  walked  about  three 
dozen  yards  without  exchanging  a  syl- 
lable. "I  always  had  a  hankering  after 
moonlight,  and  then  it's  a  saving  in 
kerosene,  too,  if  a  man  only  keeps  his 
shop  door  open.  How's  the  school  get- 
ting on.  Miss  Lucinda?" 

"Pretty  well;  much  the  same  as 
usual." 

"Don't  you  ever  get  tired  of  that 
there?  It's  sort  of  wearing  to  the  feel- 
ings, I  should  think." 

"Do  you  mean  teaching?" 

"Yes;  it's  wearing,  ain't  it?" 

I  sighed  heavily;  you  could  have 
heard  me  a  good  way  off. 

"BXit  what  can  we  do,  Mr.  Mounter- 
ville? We  must  live,  ma  and  me,  and  to 
live  we  must  labor.  It  is  of  no  use  com- 
plaining; it  is  our  lot,  and  must  be  en- 
dured."   (Sigh  the  second.) 

"Well,  but,  Miss  Lucinda,  look  hei-e," 
said  Mr.  Mounterville,  firmly;  "hain't 
you  ever  thought  of  being  married?" 

Good  gracious,  here  it  was!  I  had 
thought  Mr.  Mounterville  would  have 
been  embarrassed,  and  stammer,  and 
tremble;  but  I  can't  say  he  did.  He  took 
it  coolly,  as  though  the  matter  in  hand 
had  been  several  new  tubs  of  butter. 

"Married!  Oh,  dear  me,  Mr.  Mounter- 
ville; such  a  funny  question, you  know!" 
with  an  hysterical  little  giggle. 


MR.  MOryTERVILLE. 


M 


I  enr- 
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Illness 
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My 

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igent 

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as 


"Is  it?    Now,  I  should  think  it  was 
time.  When  a  girl  comes  to  be  your  age 
she  ought  to  marry,  if  ever  she  means 
o. 

The  odious  brute!  I  could  have  pound- 
ed hffn,  but  I  didn't.  I  only  giggled  more 
hysterically  than  before,  and  said  noth- 
ing. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  marriage  a 
good  deal  myself  lately,"  pursued  Mr. 
Mounterville,  looking  severely  at  Sam, 
who,  gazing  back  at  us,  had  spilled  the 
mackerel  over  the  snow,  "and  I've  about 
made  up  my  mind  to  try  it.  I  haven't 
had  much  time  all  along,  up  to  the  pres- 
ent, to  reflect  on  such  light  matters;  but 
I'm  pretty  comfortably  off  in  the  world 
now.  Got  a  nice  house,  and  everything 
fixed  up  in  pretty  good  style,  and  all  I 
want  to  top  off  with  is  a  wife.  I  ain't  so 
young  as  I've  been,  and  no  more  are  you, 
Miss  Thompson,  and  I  think  we  couldn't 
do  better.  Now,  what,  do  you  say?  I 
want  a  wife,  and  you  want  a  husband,  so 
suppose  we  clinch  a  bargain?  I  don't  be- 
lieve you  can  do  better." 

Good  heaven!  Did  ever  mortal  maiden 
hear  such  a  proposal?  The  coarse,  nasty 
wretch!  But  I  thought  of  the  white  man- 
sion, and  the  horse  and  carriage,  and 
servants,  and  swallowed  my  wrath. 

"Oh!  Mr.  Mounterville,  this  is  so — so 
sudden!"  I  stammered,  and  then  I 
dropped  like  a  hollyhock  on  the  stem, 
and  was  silent, 

"Sudden,  is  it?"  said  Mr.  Mounterville, 
taking  a^pinch  of  snuff;  "why,  I  thought 
I'd  been  hinting  at  it  this  some  time  (in 
groceries  gratis,  I  thought).  But  never, 
mind  the  suddenness,  Miss  Lucinda,  it's 
out  now,  and  let  us  have  your  answer- 
yes  or  no." 

This  was  an  upright  and  downright 
way  of  putting  things  with  a  vengeance! 
With  a  low-lived  longing  in  my  ten  fin- 
ger nails  to  scratch  his  odious  eyes  out, 
I  stammered  and  drooped  my  head. 

"I  hardly  know  what  to  say,  Mr. 
Mounterville;  one  feels— feels  so—"  and 
there  I  came  to  a  deadlock. 

."Good  gracious!"  cried  Mr.  Mounter- 
ville, wildlv;  "can't  you  say  something? 
Yes,  or  no;  that's  easy  enough, I'm  sure." 

"Yes,  then,"  I  returned,  goaded  to  des- 
peration; "if  ma  don't  object." 

"Oh!  she  won't  object;  she  knows 
which  side  of  her  bread's  buttered!  I'll 
go  in  and  sneak  to  her— nothing  like 
striking  while  the  iron's  hot.  And  here 
we  are.  Sam,  I've  kept  my  eye  on  you 
all  along,  and  I'll  trounce  you  within  an 


inch  of  your  life  when  I  get  back.    Be 
off!" 

Off  scuttled  Sam  in  mortal  alarm,  and 
enter  Lucinda,  foUol^d  by  Mr.  Mounter- 
ville. 

Ma  was  in  the  parlor,  darning  stock- 
ings; and  she  got  up  and  shook  hands 
with  my  companion  with  motherly  vim. 

"So  happy  to  see  you,  Mr.  Mounter- 
ville— such  a  while  since  you've  been 
here!  Take  the  rocking-chair,  da  And 
how  well  you're  looking;  dear  me,  grow- 
ing younger  every  day— isn't  he.  Lu- 
cinda?" 

"  Thanky,  mum,"  responded  Mr. 
Mounterville,  dropping  into  the  Boston 
rocker  and  making  it  creak  in  every 
pore;  "so  a  man  ought  when  he's  going 
to  be  married." 

"Going  to  be  married!"  with  a  little 
scream.  "Just  hear  that,  Lucinda!" 

"She  has  heard  It,  mum;  I  asked  her 
coming  along— that's  why  I  made  Sam 
fetch  the  molasses— and  she's  said  yes; 
and  all  that's  wanting's  your  consent — 
and  that  won't  be  wanting  long,  I 
reckon." 

My  ardent  wooer  snorted  and  took  an- 
other pinch  of  snult.  Ma  put  her  hand- 
kerchief to  her  eyes  and  sniffled;  and  I 
— I  sat  staring  at  the  fire,  and  pulling 
the  fringe  frantically  out  of  my  shawl. 

"I'm  sure,"  ma  sobbed,  at  last,  "It's  a 
trial,  and  you'll  overlook  a  mother's  feel- 
ings, Mr.  Mounterville,  though,  not  be- 
ing a  mother  yourself,  you  can't  be  ex- 
pected to  understand.  I  don't  see  how  I 
ever  shall  get  on  without  her;  and  you'lj 
have  a  treasure  that  money  can't  buy, 
though  I  say  It  that  hadn't  ought  to,  aifll 
— Lucinda,  my  love,"  with  a  sudden 
gush,  "kiss  me!" 

I  kissed  ma,  and  then  ma  went  over 
and  kissed  Mr.  Mounterville,  with  a  sec- 
ond gush.  Mr.  Mounterville  snorted 
again,  and  took  some  more  snuff. 

"That  means  yes,  don't  It?  Than  we've 
clinched  the  bargain,  I  suppose,  Miss  Lu- 
cinda?" 

"I  suppose  so,"  rather  sulkily. 

Thereupon  Mr.  Mounterville  got  up 
and  shook  my  hand  as  If  It  had  been 
the  village  prjip,  and^hook  hands  with 
ma;  and  ma,  in  a  gay  and  sprightly  man- 
ner, tripped  out  of  the  room  and  re- 
turned presently  with  a  bottle  of  black- 
berry wine  and  some  slices  of  sponge 
cake.  This  innocuous  collation  beingr 
partaken  of,  and  Mr.  Mounterville  a  spir- 
its rising  with  it,  he  proposed  the  first  of 
April  for  his  wedding-day. 


I 


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I' 


i, 


91 


MR,  MOUNTERVJLLE. 


W^ 


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IE.:; 


!:JI 


"April  Eool'8-day,  you  know/'with  a 
chuckle;  "so  kind  of  appropriate,  you 
know.  Let's  be  Dirtied  April  FooVs- 
d^y,  Miss  LucindaP 
'If  I  could  have  shied  the  plat©  of 
sponge  cake  at  his  head,  as  he  sat  there, 
what  an  inexpressible  relief  it  would 
have  been  to  my  overcharged  heatt!  But 
I  only  "grinned  horribly  a  ghastly 
smile,"  and  said  it  should  be  as  he 
wished. 

So  the  wedding-day  being  fixed,  and  all 
things  settled,  Mr.  Mounterville  got  up 
to  go.  I  accompanied  him  to  the  gate, 
shook  hands  with  him  across  it,  and 
bade  him  good-night,  and  watched  him*| 
plodding  along  the  moonlit  road,  his 
bands  in  his  pockets,  and  whistling  for 
purest  joy,  like  an  asthmatic  bullfrog. 

As  I  stood  there,  contemplating  the 
starry  brilliancy  of  the  sky  and  the  spot- 
less whiteness  of  the  earth,  in  a  pensive 
reverie,  there  started  out  from  the  cor- 
ner of  the  house,  and  the  shadow  of  an 
old  pear  tree,  a  young  man,,  who  stood 
still  and  confronted  me. 

I  gave  one  little  yelp  of  terror  and 
started  back,  staring  with  all  my  n^ight. 
And  no  wonder,  for  the  young  man  was 
tali  as  a  telegraph  pole,  and  robed  in 
sombre  b\ack;  and  his  countenance  was 
albeit  handsome,  with  two  blazing  black 
eyes,  and  a  shock  of  tar-black  hair. 

'MDh!  let  me  not  startle  you,  pretty 
one,"  said  this  remarkable  phenomenon, 
in  a  deep  and  husky  bass;  "had  I  heart 
for.falsehood  formed,  I  never  could  in- 
jure thee!  Do  you  take  boarders  in  your 
house?" 

The  jerking  suddenness  with  which 
this  question  was  put,  and  the  peculiar 
gtyle  of  his  two  previous  remarks,  left 
me  gasping  like  a  stranded  fish,  and  ut- 
terly unable  to  reply. 

"And  still  she  gazed,"  said  this  tall 
young  man,  rapidly,  with  a  violent 
sweep  »f  one  arm;  "and  still  the  wonder 
grew!  Tell,  oh!  tell  me,  fairest  maiden, 
dp  you  keep  boarders?'* 

I  found  nay  tongue  at  last.  V 

"If  you'll  step  in,  sir,"  I  said,  unlatch- 
ing the  gate,  "I'll  see.  We  do  take  board- 
ers occasionally;  but  you  must  speak  to 
my  mother." 

"Oh!  thou  hast  been  the  cause  of  this 
anguish,  my  mo;ther,"  chanted  the  tall 
5*;<juhg  man,  striding  through.  "Proceed, 
ikright  vision!  I  follow  whithersoever 
thou  leadest." 

Really  this  young  gentleman's  style  of 
conversation  was  remarkable,  to  say  the 


least  of  it.  I  opened  the. door  in  consid- 
erable trepidation,  and  ushered  him  into 
the  maternal  presence. 

"Madam,  I  salute  thee,  lo  te  salute!" 
said  the  seeker  after  lodgings,  laying  his 
hand  on  his  heart  and  bowing  low;  "this 
fair  creature,  your  diaughter,  I  perceive, 
informs  me  you  take  boarders.  Madam, 
madam,  may  I  have  that  honor?" 

"Goodness  me,  Lucinda,  my  dear!" 
cried  ma,  jumping  back,  and  dropping 
her  balls  and  needles  in  a  paroxysm  of 
terror  and  dismay. 

"Fear  not,  fear  not,  fairest  being!" 
said  the  gentleman,  in  a  shrill,  chanting 
voice,  and  transfixing  me  with  his  wild, 
black  eyes.  "I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if 
guilt's  in  thy  heart;  but  I  know  I  want 
lodgings,  whatever  thou  art.  Answer  me 
quickly!"  getting  excited,  "and  answer 
me  truly,  minion,  wilt  thou,  or  wilt  thou 
not?" 

Then  it  all  fiashed  upon  me — the  tall 
young  gentleman  was  mad!  He  looked  , 
like  Lara,  or  the  Corsair,  a  good  deal; 
but  I  didn't  care  for  my  ideal  just  then, 
and  would  have  given  a  year  of  my  life 
to  see  Mr.  Mounterville's  florid  complex- 
ion and  sandy  whiskers  beaming  on  me 
through  the  door.  I  had  heard  that  a  lu- 
natic, and  a  dangerous  one,  had  escaped 
out  of  an  asylum  in  the  next  town,  and 
was  supposed  to  be  hiding  in  the  pine- 
woods.  And  here  he  was,  glaring  upon 
me,  with  flaring  black  eyes.      ■ 

"Speftk!"  cried  our  terrible  visitor,  ad- 
vancinig  a  step  toward  me,  "speak!  or,  by 
the  stars  above,  I'll  tear  thy  perjured 
soul  from  out  thy  craven  carcass,  and 
fling  it  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven! 
Wretch!  miscreant!  base  minion!"  with 
a  howl  and  a  hop  nearer  me,  "this  night 
Shalt  thou  pay  the  penalty  of  thy  crime; 
this  night  my  wrongs  shall  be  avenged!" 

He  made^a  grab  at  me,  caught  me  by 
the  shoulder,  and  waved  the  other  arm 
aloft.  I  gave  one  shriek,  and  then  my 
throat  was  grasped. 

"Foul  wizard,  ayaunt!  I  have  mar- 
shaled my  clan!  Down,  slave — down! 
Cease  thy  cries,  for  these  dungeon  walls 
are  thick,  and  none  shall  hear,  or  help! 
Die  the  death!  Die!  worm,  toad,  siren, 
fiend  in  female  form!    Die!" 

Not  yet!  The  door  was  flung  open, 
and  oh!  thanks  and  praise  forever!  in 
rushed  Mr,  Mounterville,  and  laid  hold 
of  my  frantic  opponent.  My  face  was 
black,  my  eyes  and  tongue  protruding, 
and  I  rolled  over  in  a  heap  on  the  floor. 


"Ah, 
hast  col 
luadmai 
ton  thlt 
me  hurl 

There 
they  vo\ 
other's 
life  of 
ris^s  t( 
erville'^ 
fought 
my  bral 
victorif 
skeletol 

way. 
floor  al 

"Fet 
and  r 
Ah,  y< 
crazy 
heels, 
Wasn' 
hook  5 
I  heal 
Nowl 
afltii 
this  cl 

I  si 
slapp« 
lound 
on  th< 

"Al 
decei' 
him  i 
untie 


MR.  MiH\TEti\  ILLB. 


fonsid- 
into 

flute!" 
Pg  his 
'this 

i'celve, 
[adam, 

iear!" 
PPPing 
|sna  of 

ing! " 

inting 

wild, 

^ot,  if 

want 

er  me 

iswer 

thou 


"Ah,  vassal!  dog  of  a  Christian!  thou 
hast  come  to  the  rescue!"  yelled  the 
madman;  "thou  wouldst  shield  the  wan- 
ton thing!  But  share  her  fate,  cur!  Let 
me  hurl  thee  to  inferno!"         v 

There  was  a  clutch  and  a  wrestle,  and 
they  rolled  over  and  over,  locked  in  each 
other's  embrace.  There  is  a  time  in  the 
life  of  every  man,  I  suppose,  when  he 
ris'fes  to  sublimity — this  was  Mr.  Mount- 
erville's  time.  The  Corsair  couldn't  have 
fought  more  manfully  for  Medora  than 
my  brave  little  man  for  me.  And  he  was 
victorious!  The  madman  was  a  mere 
skeleton,  and  his  fictitious  strength  gave 
way.  Mr.  Mounterville  pinned  him  to  the 
floor  and  called  to  me. 

"Fetch  me  the  clothesline,  Lucinda, 
and  I'll  fix  this  squirming  vagabond. 
Ah,  yes!  you  would,  would  you? — you 
crazy  scamp!  That  will  do;  hold  his 
heels,  and  keep  him  from  kicking. 
Wasn't  it  lucky  I  dropped  my  pocket- 
book  and  came  back  to  look  for  it;  and 
I  heard  you  yell  out  here  on  the  road. 
Now  he's  safe;  and  there's  the  ir other  in 
a  fit  in  the  corner.  See  to  her,  l.ucinda — 
this  chap's  all  right!" 

I  shook  ma,  and,  sprinkled  her,  and 
slapped  her,  and  presently  brought  her 
round.  And  all  the  while  the  lunatic  lay 
on  the  floor  glaring  at  the  ceiling. 

"Ah!  you're,  quiet  now,  you  matchless 
deceiver!"  said  Mr.  Mounterville,  giving 
him  a  little  push  with  his  toe;  "but  just 
untie  you,  and  see  the  cantrips  you'd  cut 


a 


up.  Where  would  you  be  now.  Lucinda, 
only  for  me?" 

Where,  ndeed?  Would  you  believe  it? 
I  walked  right  over  and  kissed  Mr. 
Mounterville. 

"False!  false!"  moaned  the  young  man 
on  the  floor,  "false  as  fair!  Thou  hast 
learned  to  love  another;  thou  hast 
broken  every  vow!  But  go  it-^go  it!  Let 
fate  do  her  worst;  I'll  not  flinch!" 

It  was  of  no  use — he  was  tied  too  fast. 
I  went  to  the  village  for  help,  and  our  lu- 
natic was  removed  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  stars,  and  dreamily  murmuring  po- 
etry. He  had  been  an  actor,  it  appeared 
afterward,  when  his  keepers  found  him. 
and  ono  of  the  worst  cases  in  the  asy- 
lum. I  was  grateful  to  Mr.  Mounterville, 
of  course,  and  gratitude  Is  akin  to  love. 
After  all,  Medora  and  Gulnare,  and  the 
itst  of  these  poetic  beings  who  had  de- 
lightfully romantic  husbattds  (by  the 
bye,  were  they  their  husbands?)  were 
unspeakably  unhappy  young  women; 
and  it  was  much. better  to  marry  a  rich, 
stout,  elderly  grocer  than  a  cut-throat 
brigand,  if  one  comes  to  look  at  it  in  a 
proper  light.  And  so  I  rather  think  I'm 
resigned  to  my  fate. 

April  is  drawing  near;  my  dresses  ar6 
being  made;  the  school  is  broken  up; 
and  the  grocery  store  flourishes  like  a 
green  bay-tree.  And  sitting  here,  gazing 
at  the  moon  rays  with  folded  hands  and 
dreamy  eyes,  I  sign  myself,  for  the  last 
time,  yours  pensively,  Lucinda  Thomp- 
son. 


1 


:\ 


!i 


/ 


HKaii 


I, 


m  ■ 


I.  ■  .*! 


mr 


I.; 


S.^ 


,  ,>.:i  ;<■.. 


;  By  Mrs.   MAY  AGNES  FLEMING,  ' :  ^     ' 

Author  of  "  A  Wonderful  Wonum,"  "  A  Terrible  Secret,"  "  The  Mystery  at  Blackimod  Orange" 

^        •      .r^-.;..,v  •  "  Sir  lioela  Heir,"  Mo.,  Etc.  •     <'•  .       • 


*  /■  7 


"iPa'tter;  p'attfer,  patter!  How  drearily 
the  rain  thilB  to-day.  Around  the  old 
l^criifie,  through  those  gray  old  walls,  the 
dying  wind  creeps,  wailing  and  meaning, 
like  the  last  cry  of  a  broken  heart.  Sadly 
the  rain  beats  against  the  window,  with 
heavy  sobsMike  to  human  sorrow.  Wifti 
the  voices  of  the  wind  and  rain  in  my 
ears,  with  the  black  and  murky  sky 
above  my  head,  and  with  gloom  all 
ground,  iny  thoughts  wander  back, ,  far 
away  to  the  sorrowful  past.  On  such  a 
day  /as  this  should  my  life's  story  be 
told,  for,  like  this  ghostly,  dreary  au- 
inihn  day,  it  risies  before  the,  shrouded 
In  darkness  arid  glpom. 
C  Far  away,  amid  the  grand  old  forest, 
Che. first  fourteen  years  of  my  life  were 
spent.  The  only  world  I  ever  knew  was 
bounded  by  the  majestic  trees;  the  only 
faces  I  had  ever  looked  upon  were  the 
dark-skinned  members  of  our  tribe. 
Spmetimes  visitors,  gay  ladies  and  gen- 
trleinen,  would  pass  our  encampment  and 
t^top  to  haye  their  fortunes  told,  but  I 
never  saw  them.  My  grandmother, 
Gypsy  Kerine,  as  she  was  called,  the 
oiily  relative  I  ever  knew,  watched  over 
irie  with  jealous  carel  Never,  she  said, 
firmly,  should  the  eyes  ,of  these  gay 
young  men  rest  upon  chiXd. of  hers  again. 
,^he  daughter  of  .her  old -age  had  once 
fled  with  one  of  these.  I  was  her  only 
child,  gifted  with  all  the  fatal  beauty  of 
my  dead  mother,  mingled  with  the  fire, 
energy  and  pride  of  my  father,  and  now, 
.ijKrJijile  ,  s1i€>  lived,  her.  daughter's,,  child 
sj^ouXd.nevei'  see  one  <>f  her.  father's  race. 
^  Oh-  the  vague,. wild. longings  that,  at 
times,  would  fill  my  heart  to  see  the 
beautiful  wcirld  beyond,  of  iwhfeh  the 
young  gypsy  girls  rela.ted "such  wbiider- 
1^1  tales.  Of  beajiiljfiil  ladies,  dressed  so 
jmJ^ndUidJiy,  jn.  rpji^es  ,^that  jv^uld .  ds^saile 
'%nh  eyes'^^to  loot  iipon,,  arid  of  handsonie, 
cp^rtly ;  g^t^mts^i  wha  wjould  -jptp:  them 


such  charming  compliments,  and  cross 
their  palms  with  gold,  for  tehing  them 
of  a  future  as  glorious  as  a  gypsy's 
dream  could  make  it.  Then,  coming 
home,  my  fervid  imagiiration  fired  with 
such  tales,  I  would  cast  myself  at  Ker- 
ine's  feet,  and  beg  passionately,  wildly, 
for  permission  to  go  forth  and  see  all  the 
beautiful  world  beyond  for  myself;  and 
again  and  again  1  would  hear,  in  answer, 
the  same  cold,  firm,  determined: 

"Never,  Myra!" 

Sometimes  I  would  grow  desperate  at 
this  confinement,  doubly  irksome  to  one 
of  my  impulsive,  fiery  nature,  i^nd,  with 
wild  vehemence,  declare  my  determina- 
tion to  escape.  At.  such  times  my  grand- 
mother would  smile  sneeringly  and  point 
to  where  stood  one  who  followed  me 
everywhere — followed  me  night  and  day 
like  my  own  shadow — a  wild,  untamed, 
lawless  gypsy  boy  —  by  name,  Lendoh 
Bray. 

Lendon  Bray — oh,  how  I  hated  him! 
Evei*  since  I  had  been  able  to  remember 
anything,  he  constantly  followed  •  me. 
No  dog  could  track  out  a  fugitive's  steps 
as  he  could  mine,  wherever  I  went. 
Through  the  forest,  it  mattered  not  how 
stealthily  I  looked  round,  I  would  see 
him  behind  me,  creeping  along  in  my 
trail  like  a  snake.  Oh.  how  I  loathed 
and  hated  that  boy;  the  very  sunlight 
seemed  hateful  when  he  stood  in  it. 
Many  and  many  a  timfe,  when  driven 
nearly  to  desperation  by  his  ceaselessly 
dogging  my  steps,  have  I  wished  it  were 
in  my  power  to  murder  him.  I  knew  not 
then  how  sinful  such  thoughts  were; 
could  I  have  found  the  opportunity,  I 
would  have  slain  him,  with  as  little 
remorse  as  I  v^ould  crush  a  viper;  but 
fate  willed  it  otherwise. 

One  pleasant  afternoon,  in  the  glorious 

Indian   shimmer,   I  was  Eeated^  mirsing 

i\^P9.]i  the  iirkBO|ne,  lonict^    life    I  .  was 


his 
Kerl 

apra 

■■"I 
wh? 

<i 

plii 
"61 
Idd 
fee 

tO'' 

br 
wl 
va' 

ik 
G 

'  n 
ft 

8 
t 
S 
< 

1 


•  "•■"'■  '    '  "^  ■> 


aYPSY  MY II A. 


obliged  to  lead,  so  different  from  the 
free,  gay,  careless  life  of  the  other  gypsy 
girls,  and  longing,  with  strange  eager- 
Bess,  to  leave  the  forest  forever.  Had  I 
Known  how  to  pray,  I  might  have  im- 
plored help  from  on  high,  but  I  had 
never  even  heard  the  word.  Seme  vague 
notion  I  had  of  a  supreme  being,  who 
iniled  over  the  destinies  of  men,  but  that 
■waa  all.  The  idea  of  addre£sing  one  I 
could  not  see  would  have  then  appeared 
to  me  ftbsurd  and  iucompreheuslble.  So 
I  sat  there,  weaving  pictures  and  day- 
dreams to  myself,  of  that  unknown 
world  I  seemed  never  doomed  to  see,  and 
feeling  a  sort  of  dreamy  pleasure  in 
knowing  that  I  was  alone.  Gradually, 
IJowever,  I  felt  I  was  not  alone.  I  had 
heard  no  one  approach,  yet,  when  I 
looked  up  and  saw  Lendon  Bray  before 
me,  I  felt  in  no  way  surprised. 

"One  of  the  tribe  is  dead,  Myra,"  he 
said,  gazing  at  me  steadily,  with  his  cold, 
glittering  black  eye. 

"I  wish  you  were  dead,  too,  Lendon 
Bray,"  I  said,  passionately,  springing  to 
my  feet,  and  turning  away. 

."Stop,  Myra,"  he  said,  calmly,  laying 
Wis  hand  on  my  shoulder,  "it  is  Gypsy 
Kerlne,  your  grandmother,  Myra." 

-With  a  low,  sharp  cry  of  horror,  1 
e^prang.  to  his  side. 

"My  grandmother  dead!  Lendon  Bray, 
what  do  you  mean?  How— when — where 
did  she  die?"  I  exclaimed. 
' -"She  died  half  an  hour  ago,"  he  re- 
plied, in  his  usual  cold,  indifferent  way. 
"She  was  walkfng  toward  the  keeper's 
Ibdge,  and  fell  into  one  of  the  fox  traps, 
keeper  Lee  heard  her  cry  out  and  came 
toward  her,  and,  finding  her  still  alive, 
brought  her  here.  She  couldn't  speak 
when  she  arrived,  and  died  a  few  mo- 
ments after." 

I  listened  with  a  sort  of  bewildered 
consciousness,  like  one  stunned  by  some 
sudden  blow.  Little  cause  had  I  to  love 
Gypsy  Kerine,  and  yet  tears  of  real  sor- 
row fell  fronr  my  eyes,  as  the  clods  were 
laM  on  the  face  of  the  old  woman.  Stern 
^Ad  harsh  to  me  she  ever  had  been,  yet 
s&e  was  my  only  relative,  and  I  felt,  as  I 
took  my  last  look  at  her  dark  face^  that 
a  great  gap  lay  between  me  and  every 
one  elise  in  the  world. 

iPrOm  meditations  stieh  as  these  I^wasj 
iici^iraed  by  the  sound  of  footsteps  beside 
mfc    Looking  up  I  saw  the  hated  fifinire 
<Sf  Len^oB  Bray.    He  watched  me  «i«i^ly 
for  a  toonreDt,  then,  with  a  strange,  rest- 


less  glitter   in  his  dark   eyes,   he  said, 
quietly: 

"Free  at  last,  Myra." 

P'ree!  Ye«,  I  was  free.  I  had  not 
thought  of  it  before,  aud  my  heart  gave 
a  sudden  glad,  exultant  throb.  I  raised 
my  head  and  drew  myself  up  proudly. 

"Yes,  Lendon  Bray,  free — free  for  ever- 
more! Free  to  lead  what  life  I  like; 
free  to  go  and  come  when  I  please,  un- 
watched  and  unfollowed.  Free  from  you 
forever — remember  that!"   . 

"I   shall    remember,    Myra,"    he   said, 
calmly.     "What   use   do   you   intend   to* 
make  of  your  freedom?" 

"What  I  please.  It  is  no  business  of 
yours,  that  I  am  aware  of,"  I  answered, 
shortly. 

"Oh,  none  whatever-  certainly  not!" 
he  said,  in  his  cool,  carelets  tone,  "only 
there  is  going  to  be  a  fafr  at  the  town 
to-morrow,  and,  as  you've  never  been 
to  one,  I  thought  I  would  bring  you." 

"You  bring  me?"  I  exclaimed,  with  a 
scornful  laugh.  "No,  no — not  so;  you 
will  never  see  the  day  that  I  will  accept 
a  favor  from  you.  I  can  take  care  of 
Gypsy  Myra,  and  you  mind  yourself, 
lendon  Bray." 

He  made  no  reply.  I  stooped  to  gather 
a  cluster  of  crimson  berries  for  my  half 
and  then  turned  proudly  away.  He  took 
one  step  after  me,  and,  laying  his  hand 
on  my  arm,  said,  sorrowfully: 

"Myra,  what  have  I  ever  done  that  you 
should  treat  me  thus?  Why  should  you 
dislike  one  who  loves  you?" 

"Dislike!"  I  repeated,  fiercely.  "I  bate 
you,  Lendon  Bray — oh,  how  I  hate  you, 
and  I  wish  you  were  dead!  Go  back, 
sir!  don't  dare  to  follow  me.  Back — I 
command!"  and  I  stamped  my  foot  pas- 
sionately. 

A  sudden,  sharp  gleam  shot  from  his 
black  eyes,  as  he  hissed,  from  between 
his  clenched  teeth: 

"Have  a  care  what  you  say,  girl.  I  am 
not  to  be  scorned  with  impunity,  Gypsy 
Myra." 

A  very  fury  seemed  to  possess  me  as 
he  spoke. 
;  "This  for  your  warning,  then." 

I. picked  up  a  sharp  stone  and  fiung 
it  with  all  my  might  at  his  bead.  One 
naoment  I  stood;  I  heard  his  sudden  ex^ 
cYamation,  saw  the  stream  of  blood  that 
flowed  from  bis  forehead,  saw  his  face 
grow  livid  with  Eag€(,  as  he  made  one 
spritig  after  me.  A  mocking  laugh  was 
my  answer,,  as   I    darted  through   the- 


I 'if 


.'.  I, 


m 


9B 


OYPSY  MYRA, 


bushes,  and  flew,  rather  than  walked,  to 
the  tents. 

All  the  rest  of  the  day  I  remained  care- 
fully out  of  sight.  It  was  not  dread  of 
Lendon  Bray  made  me  shrink  from 
meeting  him— fear  was  a  sensation  I  had 
never  known;  but  I  felt  ashamed  and 
grieved  at  what  I  had  done.  I  did  not 
know  or  care,  perhaps,  that  it  was  wrong 
and  sinful,  but  I  felt  humbled  at  having 
given  way  to  my  passion,  and,  after  all, 
he  had  never  really  injured  me. 

The  next  day's  sunlight,  however,  dis- 
pelled all  these  reflections.  When  I  arose 
the  people  were  all  preparing  for  the 
fair  — packing  up  carts,  making  flres, 
cooking  breakfast,  and  getting  ready 
their  baskets  for  sale;  all  was  bustle 
and  confusion.  How  often  had  I  sa;t 
watching  them  prepare  for  fairs  and 
gatherings  before,  with  feelings  of  envy; 
now  I  was  going  myself— going  to  see 
the  beautiful  world  beyond,  at  last. 

"Time  to  get  ready,  Myra,"  said  Zita, 
the  handsomest  gypsy  girl  in  the  tribe, 
approaching  and  interrupting  my  medi- 
tations, j 

"I  have  nothing  to  wear,"  I  said,  look-  I 
ing  up  in  dismay  at  her  fanciful  adorn- 
ments, most  of  which  had  been  stolen  by 
her  own  clever  flngef s. 

"Oh,  no  matter!  Gypsy  Ruth  is  not 
going,  and  she'll  lend  you  hers.  They'll 
just  fit  you,  and,  before  night,  if  you're 
clever,  you'll  manage  to  nab  enough  to 
buy  a  dress,"  and  Zita  laughed,  sang  a 
wild  mountain  chorus,  struck  her  tam- 
bourine gaily  and  jumped  into  one  of 
the  carts,  all  ready  for  the  fair. 

In  a  few  moments  I  was  all  ready, 
and,  running  across  the  green,  sprang 
into  the  same  cart  with  Zita,  just  as  it 
began  to  move  away. 

"How  handsome  Myra  looks  in  her 
crimson  gypsy  cloak.  She  altogether 
outshines  you,  Zita,"  said  some  one  be- 
hind me. 

I  turned  hurriedly,  for  well  I  knew 
that  voice,  and  crimsoned  to  the  temples. 
Gypsy  Zita  tossed  her  raven  braids  co- 
quettishly,  aiid  replied,  angrily: 

"Mind  your  own  business,  Lendon 
Bray.  You  needn't  think  because  you're 
dying  about  Myra  every  one  else  is.  Get 
oft." 

He  leaped  from  the  cart  without  a 
ward.  As  he  did  so  his  cap  fell  off,  dis- 
clOBlng  hia  forehead,  swollen  and  cut.  I 
felt  now  sincerely  sorry  for  what  I  had 
done,  but  before  I  could  apologiie  he 
was  gone. 


"What  do  you  intend  to  i do  in  the  fair 
to-day,  Myra?"  loquired aiita.  "Sell  bab- 
kets,  tell  fortunes,-  or  pick  pockets?" 

"I  am  no  thief,"  I  answered^  curtly. 

"Oh,  well!"  aaid  Zita.  "I'll  show  you. 
It  ain't  hard." 

"I  don't  want  to  learn  to  stealj"  I  said, 
angrily. 

"Well,  dear  me,  you  needn't  get  so 
cross  about  it!"  said  Zita,  indignantly. 
"I'm  sure  you  ought  to  be  thankful  for 
the  offer.  What  do  you  intend  to  do — 
tell  fortunes?" 

I  nodded. 

"Do  you  know  what  to  say?"  persisted 
the  good-natured  Zita. 

I  nodded  again. 

"Who  show:ed  you?    Gypsy  Kerlne?" 

Another  nod. 

Zita,  finding  I  was  determined  not  to 
enter  into  conversation,  turned  around 
and  began  plying  the  next  one  to  her 
with  questions,  until,  to  my  great  relief, 
the  cart  stopped  and  each  one  got  out 
and  mingled  with  the  crowd. 

For  a  few  moments  I  stood  by  myself 
and  gazed  around,  half-bewildered,  on 
the  crowd  of  people,  moving  to  and  fro. 

At  last  I  went  forward,  feeling  curious 
to  see  the,  wonders  of  the  fair.  Suddenly 
some  one  right  before  me  exclaimed: 

"Oh,  brother,  look!  look!  See  that 
gypsy  girl  with  the  red  cloak-roh,  how 
handsome!" 

I  looked  up,  somewhat  conhised,  to 
see  the  speaker.  It  was  a  fair,  richly 
dressed  young  lady,  who  leaned:  upon  the 
arm  of  a  young  and  eminently  handsome 
man.  As  I  stood,  not  knowing  whether 
to  advance  or  recede,  Gypsy  Zita  passed 
me  and  whispered: 

"Don't  stand  there  like  a  fool  all  day, 
Myra.    Go  up  and  tell  their  fortunes,". 

Acting  on  this  hint,  I  advanced  boldlv 
and,  turning  to  the  lady,  I  said: 

"Let  the  gypsy  girl  tell  your  fortune, 
my  pretty  lady?" 

"Just  what  I  was  going  to  ask  you  to 
do,"  she  said,  laughingly  extending  her 
hand.  "Mind  now,  my  dark-eyild  gypsy, 
and  predict  for  me  a  happy  future," 

"One  so  beautiful  cannot  be  otherwise 
than  happy,"  I  replied,  demurely  taking 
her  hand.  ^ 

"There's  a  compliment  for  you,  sis," 
said 'her  companion,  pinching  her  blush- 
ing cheek.    "Now  let  us  hear  your  fate." 

I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  sniiltog 
at  the  eagerness  with  which  she  listened 
as  I  predicted  for  her,  with  the  usual 
cant  of  our  tribe,  an  uoclohded:  future.. 


tfa*e 


QYPf^  MYHA. 


Slie  smiled  brightly,  when  I  had  done, 
Bind  extended  me  a  guinea,  saying: 
"Now  .  tell    this  gentlemau^B  fortune, 

Miss  iJypsy;" '•  •   ■:.'■■. ' .   ■•:-!? '■  ---vv  ■«;'y>  .,.;r.v  . 

I  looked  up  fearlessly  Ih  bier  face,  but; 
meeting  the  look  of  profound  admiration 
in  bis  blue  eyes,  my  own  fell,  and  I  felt 
the  hot  blood  crimsoning  my  cheeks.  I 
took  his  hand,  small  and  white  as  a 
Ifldy'Sr  ^nd  every  nerve  in  my  heart 
thrilled  at  the  touch  of  those  mU,  warna 
fingers.  What  a  contrast  it  was  to  my 
little  brown  hand. 

Oh!  ye  who  talk  so  coolly  and  sedately 
of  falling  in  love,  little  dream  of  the  in- 
tensity of  loving  at  first  sight.  From 
th*e  first  moment  my  eyes  rested  on  the 
, face  of.  Wil lard  Dale  I  loved  him— loved 
him  with  all  the  passionate  fervor  that 
only  tropical  natiitres  like  mine  can 
know.  The  blood  seemed  leaping,  with 
new  life,  through  every  vein,  as,  with 
wild  enthusiasm,  I. pictured  a  future,  as 
brilliant  and  glorious  as  even  my  heart 
eould  wish  him.  Involuntarily  he  caught 
his  breath  and  flushed  to  the  temples  at 
my  impetuous  words.  ^ 

"How  glorious!  how  dazzling!"  ex- 
dimmed  his  sister,  her  eyes  kindling  as 
I  ceased.  "Oh,  Willacd,  what  a  future 
there  is  for  you!" 

'He  smiled  slightly,  and,  still  holding 
my- hand,  he  drew  from  his  own  an  ele- 
gant eeal  ring  and  placed  it  on  my  finger, 
saying: 

"Accept  my  thanks  and  this  ring,  most 
beautiful  gypsy,  and  may  your  own  fu- 
ttire  be  as  bright  as  that  yoii  have  fore- 
told  me."  .  And,  with  negligent  ease,  he 
rettirhed  my  low  salutation  and  turned 
away  with  his  sister. 

.During  the-  rest  of  the  day  I  moved 
about  like  one  in  a  dream.  The  fair  had 
lost  all  its*  attractions  for  me  —  every- 
thing was  forgotten  save  him  I  had  seen. 
Even  London  Bray,  whose  dark  face  and 
■glittering  eyes  met  me  at  every  turn, 
watching  me  with  the  old  restless,  eager 
look.  How  anxiously,  as  the  day  wore 
on,;  I  scrutinized  every  one  I  met  to  see 
il  he  was  near;  but,  in  vain— he  had  de- 
parted. > 

At  len||th,  as  evening  drew  oa^  we  all 
assembled  and  entered  the  carts  to  drive 
'  home.    Each  had  their  own  story  to  re- 
-  late,  their  money  to  count,  and  the  clev- 
erness with  which,  they  had  earned  it  to 
boast  of. 

'.^And  what  have  you  got,.Myca?"  In- 
Q«rlred  Gypsy  Zita. 
'      I  fi»d  been  sitting,  gazing  so  intently 


upon  tha  ring  on  my  finger  that  I  heana 
-  not  a  word  that  had  been  spoken  «ntil 
she  addressed  me.  I  started  and  colored, 
like  one  guilty,  and  wrapped  my  hand 
in  my  cloak  to  conceal  the  tok^n. 

"Don't  hide- it,  Myra,"  said  the  voice  of 
Lehdon  Bray,  with  a  short  laugh,  "it's 
a  pretty  toy,  and  the  River  was  very 
handsome,  too — wasn't  he,-  Myra?" 

His  glassy  eyes  glittered  as  he  spoke, 
with  an  evil  light.  I  shuddered  invol- 
untarily, and,  wrapping  my  cloalf  closely 
around  me,  turned  away  in  silence. 

Zita  was  about  to  begin  questioning 
again,  but  something  in  my  manner 
checked  her,  and  the  Journey  home  was 
performed  in  unusual  silence. 

All  that  night,  in  my  dreams,  I  saw 
the  pale,  thoughtful  face  and  clear  blue 
eyes  of  Willard  Dale  watching  me.  Yet, 
though  he  never  for  a  moment  "v^  ab- 
sent from  my  thoughts,  1  could  scarce-y 
suppress  a  cry  of  surprise  and  joy  when 
I  encountered  him  next  morning  in  tho 
forest.  How  well  he  looked!  Better,  I 
fancied,  even  than  th^  day  befoi^e, 
dressed  in  a  green  hunting  suit,  his  gun 
on  his  shoulder  and  his  dog  by  his  side. 

"Why,  is  it  possible, my  pretty  gypsy!" 
he  exclaimed,  in  surprise,  throwing  him- 
self on  the  grass  beside  me.  "I'd  not  the 
slightest  idea  I  was  to  be  so  fortunate 
as  to  meet  you  here."  '      ^T 

"Nor  did  I  expect  to  meet  you' here, 
sir,"  I  answered,  looking  up  in  the  eyes 
I  already  loved  so  well,  v  ;  ';  i  V  .  ''^i':^ 
.  "Some  good  fairy  sent  me  feitfier,  no 
doubt,  to  see  the  dark-eyed  queen  of  the 
forest,"  he  said,  gaily.  "Why,  I  have 
bQen  thinking,  of  you  ever  sinee  we  met 
yesterday.  I  intended  to  seek  for  you, 
but  I  knew  not  your  name.    What  is  it?" 

"Gypsy  Myra."        '^  *        . 

"Well,  then,  Myra,  I  have  son^ething 
to  tell  you.  Yesterday,  after  you  told 
me  my  fortune,  an  'evit-  looking  gypsy 
youth  Eought  me  out  and  threatened  me 
with  all  sorts  of  calamities  if'  I  ever 
spoke  to  you  again.  Who  was  hie?  Do 
you  know?" 

"Yes  — yes— 'I  know.  What  did  you 
say  to  him?" 

.  ."Say^  to  him!"  be  repeated,  laughing. 
"I  didn't  stop  to  reason  matters  with 
him,  I  assure  you.  I  just  took  him  by 
the  collar  and  pitched  hiin,  head  first, 
into  the  middle  of  the  crowd,  as  a  gentle 
hint  to  mind  his  owi^  bus!nes8.t  I  rather 
think  the  young  gentleman  won't  trouble 
me  for  a  white  againv"  - 

As-  he  spoke'  a  fttstHng  In  the  btisbes 


80 


OYPSr  MYBA. 


I  !<<) 


arrested  my  attention.  I  glanced  around 
and  beheld  a  pair  of  black  eyes,  blazing 
witli  ominous  light,  glaring  at  us  from 
the  thicket.  Wei:  :  knew  to  whom  they 
belonged.  A  strange  dread  of  that  ev-1- 
minded  boy  stole  over  me»   I  arose  to  go. 

"What,  Myra!  you're  not  surely  going 
to  leave  me  so  soon?"  he  explained. 
"Come,  sit  down;  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

"Not  now,"  I  replied,  hastily.  "I  will 
be  missed." 

"jOh!  Well,  then,  I  won't  detain  you 
If  you  must  go.  Good-by!  I  shall  soon 
visit  you  again,  my  pretty  Myra." 

He  touched  hla  cap  gallantly,  whistled 
to  his  dog,  and  plunged  into  the  thicket, 
while  I  turned  slowly  and  thoughtfully 
homeward. 

The  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  the 
next,  Willard  came,  and  every  day,  until 
autumn  began  to  give  place  to  winter, 
we  met.  And  ever  lurking  on  our  steps 
came  Lendon  Bray.  Look  which  way  1 
vould,  his  basilisk  eyes  seemed  ever 
upon  me. 

One  day  I. hastened,  as  usual,  to  owri+^an  a 
trysting  place.  It  was  one  of  those 
balmy  days  that  sometimes  linger  on  the 
verge  of  winter.  Never  had  the  forest 
worn  so  gay  a  livery  as  now,  decked  out 
m  Its  many-hued  diess.  I  Eeated  myself 
beneath  a  large  outspreading  oak,  our 
favorite  seat,  where  often,  during  those 
happy  latter  days,  I  had  sat,  my  arms 
around  the  neck  of  his  favorite  dog,  lis- 
tening to  his  stories  of  far-off  climes. 

How  anxiously  I  listened  for  his  loved 
footsteps.  The  time  of  meeting  was  al- 
ready past,  and  never  before  had  he  loit- 
ered. 

At  length  the  well-known  sound 
reached  my  ears;  Bruno  came  dashing 
through  the  thicket,  and  a  moment  after 
his  master  was  beside  me. 

"Have  I  made  you  wait,  Myra?"  he 
said,  taking  his  seat. 

"Yes,  but  it  don't  matter,  now  .that 
you're  here,"  I  answered,  gaily. 

He  was  silent.  I  looked  up,  in  sur- 
prise, and  saw  an  unusual  cloud  resting 
on  his  brow. 

"Has  anything  happened?"  I  Inquired, 
in  alarm. 
^  "Yes,  Myra.     I  have  unpleasant  news 
for  you.     I  am  going  away,"   he  said, 
slowly. 

Going  away!  I  Was  bewildered.  I 
could  not  speak,  so  sudden  came  the 
shock.  For  a  time  we  were  both  silent; 
then,  controlling  my  emotions  by  a  firm 


effort,  I  said,  in  a  voice  which  faltered  in 
spite  of  mysQlf: 

"I  am  sorry.  How  long  will  you  he 
absent?" 

"Three  or  four  years,  perhaps,"  he 
said,  sadly. 

What  an  eternity  It  seemed  to  me!  I 
clasped  my  arms  tighter  around  Bruno's 
neck  and  hid  my  face  In  his  shaggy  side. 
Willard  watched  me,  in  silence  for  a 
moment,  then  he  unclasped  my  arms 
from  around  the  dog,  and  said: 

"Nay,  Myra,  you  should  grieve  witli 
your  arms  around  my  neck.  Instead  ot 
Bruno's!  Look  up — I  want  to  talk  with 
you." 

Look  up!  I  strove  to  do  It,  but,  mce  - 
Ing  those  sorrowful  eyes,  my  head  le  1 
over  more  heavily  oix  his  shoulder. 

"I  cannot— I  canfiot!  Oh,  Willard,  1 
shall  die  if  you  leave  me!"  I'cried,  pas- 
sionately. 

"No,  you  will  not — you  must  not, 
Myra!"  he  said,  passing  his  hand  caress- 
ingly over  my  long  bl^ck  hair.  "I  want 
to  see  ycu  live  to  be  something  better 
gypsy.  You  must  live  to  be  a 
woman— a  woman  in  every  sense  of  the 
word — good  and  noble,  and  self-rellan*;— 
one  I  shall  be  proud  of.  Listen,  Myra. 
You  have  a  splendid  voice,  and  mighc 
make  your  fortune  as  a  singer.  Will  yoi 
not  try?" 

"Yes,  yts — anything  you  wish,"  I  fal- 
tered. 

"Then,  I  shall  speak  for  you  to-mor- 
row; and  (I  shall  tell  yoiyr  fortune  this 
time)  when  I  return  I  shall  see  you, 
Myra,  the  gypsy  no  longer,  but  Myra, 
the  prima  donna  of  one  of  the  first 
operas  in  London.  And  now,  Myra,  I 
shall  see  you  to-morrow  for  the  last  ^ 
time .  until  my  return  from  Germany, 
whither  I  am  going." 

The  last  time!  How  like  a  knell  of 
death  sounded  the  words  in  my  ears. 
The  very  sunlight  seemed  to  freeze  me 
now,  for  the  light  and  warmth  of  my 
life  departed  with  him. 

He  had  told  my  fortune  truly.  Ere 
two  years  were  past-I  was  the  acicnowl- 
edged  prima  donna  of  the  opera. 


Night  after  night  I  was  haile^  wl^h  en- 
thusiasm, and  the  fame  of  "La  Belle 
Myra,"  the  "Queen  of  Song,"  had  spread 
far  and  wide.  Many  of  the  noblest  in 
the  land  had  knelt  at  my  feet,  craving 
for  one  smile;  but  I  turned  sadly  from 
them  all,  for  my  heart  was  far  away.  In 
a  "land  beyond  the  sea."  ,      . 

And,    during   all    this   time,    my   evil 


OYPfiY  UyRA. 


81 


genius,  In  the  person  of  I^ndon  Bray, 
pursued  me.  How  often,  when,  wl.h 
cheeks  glowing  and  eyes  Bparkllng,  i 
would  look  around  and  meet  tho^e  co.d, 
gleaming  eyes,  that,  in  my  proudest  mo- 
ments, could  strike  a  chill  to  my  heart. 
A  loathing  and  horror  iinspsahable  al- 
ways crept  over  me  at  the  sight.  I  would 
gladly  have  given  all  I  posFessed  in  the 
world  to  be  free  from  h  m;  but  eacaie  I 
could  not.  Night  after  night  I  world  se^ 
him  before  me,  watching  me  ever  with 
the  old  eager,  mocking  sneer  on  his  lips. 

And  so  the  three  years  of  Will ard's 
absence  passed,  and  he  would  soon  be 
home  again.  I  thought  of  this,  as  I 
stood  arrayed  before  the  glass,  one  niTht, 
preparatory  to  appearing  on  the  stage. 
That  very  night,  three  years  before,  he 
had  bidden  me  farewell! 

How  I  had  changed  in  that  time. 
Strange,  I  had  never  thought  of  it  be- 
fore; but  it  struck  me  forcibly  now,  as  I 
gazed  upon  the  image  reflected  in  the 
mirror,  clothed  in  the  rich,  flowing 
robes,  and  wearing  the  crown  of  Norma. 

Would  he  know  me?  He  had  left  me 
a  little,  tawny,  dark  -  eyed,  sun  -  burned 
gypsy.  An"d  now!  I  started  as  I  gazed 
upon  the  dark,  bright  Oriental  face,  the 
large,  languishing,  black  eyes,  so  full  of 
lire  and  passion,  the  crimson  cheeks  and 
lips,  and  tall,  regal  figure.  Involuntarily 
I  wondered  If  "I  be  I." 

A  vague  Impression  that  he  was  pres- 
ent filled  my  mind  that  night,  v/hen  I 
stood  on  the  stage.  I  heard  as  one  who 
hears  not  the  thunder  of  applause  that 
greeted  me.  I  raised  my  eyes,  and  cast 
a  sweeping  glance  over  the  audience,  and 
— !  Yes,  he  was  present!  That  proud, 
erect  carriage,  the  princely  head,  those 
dark  blue  eyes!  Oh,  well  I. knew  them. 
Yea,  he  was  there. 

That  night  I  sang  as  I  never  sang  be- 
fore. I  forgot  myself.  I  seemed  In- 
spired. I  was  no  longer  "La  Myra,"  but 
Norma  herself— sorrowful,  noble,  beau- 
tiful Norma.  I  lost  sight  of  all  present 
and  sang  with  passionate  abandon,  until 
thfe  last  act  of  the  opera.  Then,  utterly 
exhausted,  I  sank  into  a  chair. 

But  not  long  had  I  to  rest,  for  shout 
after  shout,  and  cheer  after  cheer,  broke 
upon  my  ears  until  the  very  house 
shook.  The  simultaneous  cjy  of  "l>a 
Belle  Myra,"  rang  again  and  again  upon 
the  air,  unt|l  once  more  I  stood  before 
Uiem.  Then  showers  of  wreaths  and 
bouquets,  many  knotted  with  jewels,  fell 
at  my  feet.    Lad'es,  carried  away  by  the 


enthuBiasm  of  the  moment,  clapped  their 
hands  and  waved  their  handkerthiefs, 
::nd  the  cries  grew  wilder  and  wilder,  un- 
lil,  hoarse  with  the  effort,  the  multitude 
lapsed  into  silence.  Yes,  it  was  a  tri- 
umph—a triumph  such  as  even  I  had 
never  before  won.  Yet,  as  I  bowed,  with 
(lushed  cheeks  and  palpitating  heart,  my 
eyes  fell  on  the  hated  face  of  Lendon 
iiray.  A  deadly  sickness  came  over  me, 
a  sudden  revulsion  of  feeling,  the  blood 
nu  bed  to  my  heart,  and  I  sank,  nearly 
Ewooning,  on  a  seat  as  the  curtain  again 
fell. 

I  had  won  fame  and  wealth,  and  the 
love  of  many;  but  the  proudest  and  hap- 
piest moment  of  my  li.e  was  when,  one 
month  after  that  eventful  night,  Willard 
Dale  held  me  in  his  arms  as  his  be- 
trothed bride.  Yes,  that  for  which  I 
had  struggled  was  won;  that  which  I 
had,  ever  since  our  first  meeting,  looked 
forward  to  with  wild  longing— Willard's 
love. 

I  had  quitted  the  stage  forever — for  we 
were  to  be  married  Immediately — and  1 
had  taken,  as  I  hoped,  my  last  look  at 
the  dark  face  of  Lendon  Bray. 

'Twas  the  "night  before  the  bridal." 
I  stood  on  the  piazza  of  my  houEe,  gaz- 
ing dreamily  out  upon  the  moonlight, 
with  all  the  conflicting  emotions  of  a 
bride  passing  through  my  mind.  Sud- 
denly I  felt  a  cold  hand  laid  on  my 
shoulder.  I  turned  quickly  around,  and 
almost  shrieked  aloud  as  I  found  myself 
face  to  face  with  Lendon  Bray. 

"As  you  have  not  thought  fit  to  invite 
me  to  your  wedding,  Myra,  I  thought  I 
would  call  and  tell  you  I  Intended  to 
come  without  an  invitation,"  he  said, 
with  an  evH  smile. 

"Lendon  Bray,  wnat  do  you  me».n?"  I 
exclaimed,''  a  nameless  dread  crteping 
over  me. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  he  answered,  with  the 
same  sinister  look;  "only,  as  I  have 
watched  over  you  so  carefully  all  my 
life,  I  fancied  you  would  at  least  have 
asked  me  to  see  you  married,  if  it  were 
only  to  get  my  blessing,"  and  he  laughed 
a  short,  bitter  laugh  as  he  spoke. 

"Watched  over  me?"  I  repeated,  fierce- 
ly, all  my  fiery  passions  roused  by  his 
gibing  manner.  "Yes,  you  have  dogged 
me,  night  and  day,  like  the  crawling 
snake  that  you  are!  Haunted  me,  until 
I  scarce  dared  go  outside  the  door  for 
fear  of  meeting  you!  Followed  me.  un- 
til ynu  have  made  me  hate  you  as  I  hate 
Satan  himself — until  I  have  been  tempt- 


MM 


^        f 


81 


OYPhY  MXRA-> 


ed  to  slay  myself,  rather  than  breathe 
the  same  air  with  y(),u.  I  have  loaLheU 
you  from  my  c^i^lclhood  up,  and  ever 
shall,  until  the  grave  separates  ub." 

"And  the  grave  alone  shall  ever  sep- 
arate us,"  he  hissed,  in  a  tone  that  made 
me  quail  in  spite  of  myself.  "Lc;ok," 
and  he  took  off  h!s  cap  and  pointed  to 
a  deep  scar  on  his  forehead;  "do  you  see 
that?  Well,  your  own  dainty,  jeweled 
Angers  gave  me  that  true  love  -  token. 
You  struck  me,  and  to  did  he.  You  two 
were  the  first  and  shall  be  the  last,  who 
ever  gave  me  a  blow.  I  swore  then  to 
be  revenged,  and,  though  years  have 
passed  since  then,  those  blov/s  cry  for 
i-evenge  as  loudly  as  ever.  And  so, 
Gypsy  Myra,  farewell  till  we  meet 
again!"  and  with  a  bitter,  mocking 
smile,  he  was  gone. 

During  the  remainder  of  the  night  I 
paced  my  room  up  and  down,  thinking  of 
his  ominous  words.  What  could  he 
mean?  I  dared  not  think  of  an  answer 
to  the  question,  for  well  I  V  ew  his  dark, 
wicked  mind. 

Morning  found  me  pale  and  restless. 
I  stood  like  one  In  a  trance,  while  my 
bridesmaid  robed  me  for  the  altar.  I 
saw  them  throw  the  long,  rich  veil  over 
my  head,  saw  them  weave  the  orange 
blossoms  through  my  jetty  locks,  heard 
them  whisper,  with  startled  looks,  that 
I  resembled  far  more  a  corpse  than  a 
bride.  And  all  the  time  I  saw  before  me 
the  vindictive,  revengeful  face  of  Lendon 
Bray.  It  came  between  me  and  every- 
thing else.  His  dark  eyes  clouded  all  my 
future. 

At  length  I  was  arrayed.  Willard, 
bright,  happy  and  joyous  as  ever,  only 
wondering  a  little  at  my  altered  looks, 
handed  rae  into  the  carriage,  and  we 
drove  to  the  church.  The  spacious  build- 
ing was  crowded  to  excess.     Strangers 


X.^-i:v. 


had  assembled  from  far  and  near  to  wit- 
ness the  nuptials  of  "La  Belle  Myra." 

The  ceremony  began,  and,  as  it  pro- 
ceeded, every  beat  of  ray  heart  sounded 
us  loudly  as  the  stroke  of  a  sledje  ham- 
mer. There  was  a  dead,  a  prolound 
silence  throughout  the  church,  as  the 
clergyman  pronounced  the  Impressive 
words:  "What  God  has  joined  together, 
let  no  man  put  asunder." 

Scarcely  had  the  words  passed  his  lips 
ere  the  report  of  a  pistol  broke  upon  tie 
air.  With  a  cry,  so  full  cf  piercing  ago;.y 
that  It  even  now  rings  In  my  ear,  Wil- 
lard sprang  high  In  the  air,  and  fell  dead 
at  my  feet!  Another  shot  broke  the  ap 
palling  stillness  that  reigned  throughout 
the  lofty  edifice.  I  felt  an  awful  crash, 
as  If  my  skull  were  rent  In  twain,  then 
all  became  dark — thought  and  conscious- 
ness left  me,  and  I  fell  to  the  ground. 

Months  passed  before  I  arosa  from  that 
bed  of  sickness  that  had  nearly  been  the 
bed  of  death. 

The  flowers  had  long  been  blooming 
on  the  graves  of  my  husband  and  his 
murderer. 

I  did  not  learn  how  Lendon  Bray  cp,me 
to  his  end  until  I  was  fully  recovered 
from  my  wounn.  He  had  fied  imme- 
diately after  committing  the  deed,  but 
was  arrested  a  few  days  after.  He  was 
tried,  found  guilty  of  murder  and  sen- 
tenced to  death.  The  very  night  of  his 
condemnation  he  was  found  dead  in  h's 
cell,  having  committed  suicide  rather 
than  be  publicly  hanged. 

Years  and  years  have  passed  sinc« 
then.  As  gold  is  purified  by  fire  so  is 
man  by  afillction.  I  have  passed  through 
the  furnace,  and,  I  trust,  have  come  forth 
cleansed.  I  am  walking  amid  the  shad- 
ows, but  I  only  wait  the  summons  that 
will  call  me  home,  to  be  happy  forever- 
more. 


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Hilda;  or,  Tbb  False  Vow.  ByChartott<«M  Braeme. 

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A  Trip  to  tbb  Moon.    By  Jules  Vome. 

Tbb  Pionbbr's  Dadohtbr.    By  Bmerson  Bennett. 

A  Littlb  Rbrbl.    Bv  "Th«  Duchess. " 

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Miss  McDonald.    By  Mrs.  Mary  J.  Holmec. 

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Mbehno  Hkr  Fatb.    By  Miss  nf.  B.  Braddon. 

In  Ddranob  Vile     By  "The  Duchess." 

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Tbbabcrb  Island.    By  Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 


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oAl.    A  RoouB's  Life.    By  Wllkie  Collins. 

052.    Lady  Diana's  pride.    By  Charlotte  M.  BraMMu 

oAS.    Grace  Darnbl.    Ry  MInn  m.  E.  Braddon. 

aS4.    Alla.v  Qdatbrhain.    By  H.  Rider  Haggard. 

afiO.    Kino  Arthur.     By  .MInh  Mulock. 

oM.    Ladt  Latimer's  Escape.    By  Charlntte  M.  Br 

007.    ALLAN'S  WIFE.     By  H.  Klder  Haguard. 

OSS.    Tub  Sign  op  tub  Four.    By  A.  Conan  DoylB. 

ofiO.    Pretty  Miss  smith.     By  Florence  Warden. 

a60.    Christie  Johnstone.     By  ( iiarleM  Reade. 

a6l.    A  Dark  NiOHT's  Work.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell. 

062.  The  Traoboy  OP  Lime  Hall.   By  C.  M.  Braemth 

063.  Sybil  Brotherton.      Bv  Mrs.  Soutbwortb. 
004.    Thb  Risen  Dead.     By  Florence  Marryat. 
odS.    SwBBT  la  True  Lo TB.     By  "The  Duchess." 
066.    At  HAY.    By  Mm.  Alexander. 
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068.  The  Mystery  of  No.  13.    By  Helen  B.  Mattaen. 

069.  Thk  Haunted  Hotel.    By  wllkie  Collins. 

070.  CRArifPORD.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell. 

071.  A  Fatal  Tbhptation.    By  Cbarlotte  M.  Braemo. 

072.  The  Gold  Bug.    By  Edgar  Allen  Poe. 
a73.   The  Nan  in  Black.     By  Stanley  J.  Weymao. 
074.   The  Ghost  of  Ri  vbko  alb  Hall.  By  Mrs.  May  AgMf 

Fleming. 
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Lady  Ethel's  Whim.    By  CbailotteM.  Braeio*. 

The  House  of  tbb  Wolf.    By  Stanley  J.  Weyman. 

The  Mystery  of  Cloombbb.     By  A.  Conan  Doyl*. 

The  Haunted  Hombbtkad.     By  Mrs.  Soutbwortb. 

She's  All  the  World  to  Ma.    By  Hall  Caioe. 

The  ARTIST'S  Love.     By  Mrs.  Soutbwortb. 

Beside  the  Bonnib  Brier  Bubb.    By  Ian  Maclartn. 

The  Heir  of  Brandt.     By  Etta  W.  Pierce. 

The  Hombstbadon  TBBuiLLaiDB.   By  Mrs.  Mary  J. 
Holmes. 

the  hbirrss  OF  Bbndbb  Ball.   By  Etta  w.  PlMregii 

Tbb  Shadow  of  a  Sin.    By  charlotte  M.  Braeme. 

Taa  Light  that  FAitSD.    By  Rudyard  Rtpling. 

Lord  Ltnnb'b  Cboicb.    By  Charlotte  M.  Braeme. 

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Magoib  Millrr.    By  Mrs.  Mary  J.  Holmeai 

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Rosamond.    By  Mrn.  Mary  J.  " 


Tbb  House  on  the  Island. 


Holmes. 

By  Etta  W.  Pierce. 


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Each  la»tie  Consists  of  a  Book  of  from  One  Hundred  to  Two  Hundred  Double- 
Column  Octavo  Pages,  with  Illustrated  Colored  Cover. 


N(i. 

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C6 

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c7. 

CH 
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CW. 

ell. 
Cl2. 
Cl3. 

CU. 

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CIS. 
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c46. 


JJ»»4  Lvnne.    By  Mrs.  Henry  Wood. 

J»D«  iTvi-e.    By  (Charlotte  Bronth. 

•lobti  ll'iliriix.Oeiitlemun.    By  Mlsn  MULOCK. 

The  U'onmn  In  White.    By  Wilkib  Oollinh. 


Mis.sM.  E.  Braddo.v. 

^y  ALBXANDER  DCMAS. 

By  Mm.   Mary  J. 


I.iiidy  .Dudley'!*  Wecret.  B 
The  Three  OiiiirdMinen.  ' 
Tunii>ei«t  und  iSiin.'^blne. 

HOLUCS 

Inez.    By  ADGDSTA  J.  Evans. 
I^unu  ICIverm.    By  Mrs.  Mary  J.  HOLMsa. 
Retribution.     By  Mrs    Euma   D.  E.  K.  South- 

WORTD 

MeitdoiT  Itrook.     By  Mrs.  MART  J.  HOLMKa. 
Aioue.    »y  M.\Ki()N  Harland. 
The    ButclUh   OrphunM.      Br    Mra.    Mart  J. 
Holmes. 

Tht^  Ounmaker  of  Moncow.     By  SYLTAiiCS 
COBH,  Jr. 

Fu«hlun»nd  Famine.  Bv  .Mr.s.  ANNS.  Stephens. 
Uoru  Thorne.    Bv  Charlottk  M.  Brakme. 
rncle  Toui*!!*   C'ublu.      By    tiAKRiBT    Beecher 
Stowb 

Hidden  A.wnv.    By  Etta  W  Piercb. 
The  <|ueen  of  the   Isle.    By  Mrs.  .Iat  Aqnes 
Fleminu. 

MonM-Side.    By  Marion  (Iarland. 
Madolin'M  !(..over.    By  OharloTTH  M.  Braemb. 
Bouisht  wiAhu  Price.  By  Mra.  ANNS. Stephens. 
The    Hidden    lluud.     By  Mrs.    Euma  D.  E.  N. 

SOOTHWiiRTH. 

The  Blrth>Mark.    By  Etta  W.  PiERCR. 
MuKdulen'H  Vow.  By  Mrs.  Mat  AGNBS  Fleming. 
Phyllis.    By  "TfiE  DUCHK8S." 
Married  by  Mistake.  By  Mm.  ANN  S.Stephens. 
The  lloom  ofUevllle.    By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N. 

SOI'TUWORTH. 

The  Hidden  Path.    Bv  Marion  Harland. 
The  Heiress  ofCastle  Cliffe.    By  Mrs.  May 

AONKS  FLKUING. 

Her  Ransom.    By  (Charles  ({artich. 

The    Klral   Brothers.     By  Mra.  Mat  Agnes 

KLiaiNO. 

<'lalre.    By  C^uakles  Oarvicb. 

The  Olpsy  Queen's  Vow.    By  Mrs.  May  Agnes 

Flsming. 

The  liark  ^'»cret.  By  Mrs.  Mat  AGNES  Fleming. 

The   Midv..:A°iit  Queen.     By  Mra.  Mat  Agnes 

Vlbhino. 

!^eir..M»<ic ;  L  <r,Out  of  the  Depths.    Volume 

L    By  Mrs.  Emma  D  K.  n.  Southworth. 

Httl«-Made;  or.  Out  of  the  Depths.  Volume 

"'      By  Mrs.  EMMA  D.  E.  N  Sodthworth. 

...orti   Elesmere's    IVife.    By   Cbaklottb  M. 

BRAns. 

Molly  Baw^n.    By  'The  Ducubss." 

Daughters  off'ain.    By  Etta  W.  Pibbob. 

Beulah.    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 

RIaine.    By  Omalbs  Uarvice. 

The  Hermit  ofthe  CllfTs.  By  Mrs.  Mat  Aonbs 

FLBMINa. 

Brltomarte,    the    .Man-Hater.     Volume  I. 
By  VI rs.  Emma  D.  K.  n.  south«orth. 
Brltooiirte,  the    Mun-Hater.     Volume  II. 
By  MrH.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Sol'thworth. 


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C61. 
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fC3. 

C64. 

c65. 
c6o. 
c67. 
c6a. 
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c70. 

c7I. 
c72. 
c73. 

c74. 
c75. 

c76. 

c77. 
C78. 
c79. 
c80. 

c81. 

c82. 
c83. 
C84 
crfS. 

c86. 

c87. 
c88. 
c89. 
c9ii. 

c91. 

c92. 


A   Ro.se  in  Thorns.  By  Charlotth  M.  Brarhb. 
Airy  Fairv  Lilian.    By  "  The  UOOHBSS  " 
Olpsy  ©ower.    By  .Mrs.  May  Agnbb  clbmino. 
The  American  <'ountess.   By  Etta  W.  i'lERCE. 
L.orrie  ;   or,    Bollonv    Qold.      By  Charles 
Oarvice. 

<  ousln  iMaude.    By  Mrs.  Mart  J.  IIolmbs. 
IVinninK  Her  IVay.    Volume  I.    By  Mrs.  Emma 

D.  E    N.  SOL'THWORTH. 

W^innlng  Her  Way.    Volume  II.  By  Mrs.  Emma 

D    E    N.  SOCJTHWOKTH. 

The   World  Between  Them.  By  Charlotte 

M.  BBAE.ME.  ' 

.Millhankj  or,  Roger  Irvlng's  W^ard.    By 

Mrs.  Mary  J.  Holmes. 
Doris.    By  "The  Duchess." 
Her  Heart's  Desire.    By  Charles  Oarvice, 
Kvelyn's  Folly.    By  Cuahlottb  M.  Braeme. 
The    ■..elghton    Homestead.    By  Uta.  Mart 
J   Holmes. 

The  Story  of  a  Birth.    By  Etta  W.  Pierce. 
Leslie's  Loyalty.    By  Charles  Garvice. 
The  Hallo%v  Kve  Mystery.     Volume  I.    By 
Mrs.  E.MMA  I).  E.  N.  Southworth. 
Tl»e  Hallow  Eve  Mystery.    Volume  II.    By 
Mis.  Em.ma  1).  K  N.  Southworth. 
ii^et  In  Diamonds.    By  Charlottb  M.  Braeme. 
Edith  Lyle's  ^j-ecret.  By  Mrs.  Mart  J.  HoLMta. 
Rossmoyne.    By  "The  Duchess." 
A  Passion  Flower.    By  Charles  Gaeyick. 
Heron's  Wife.    By  Etta  W.  PiKBcn. 
Ladv    Damer'8   Secret.     By   Cuablottk   M. 
Braeme. 

Ethelyn's  Mistake.    By  Mrs.  Mart  J.  Holmes. 
Portia.    By  "  THE  DUCHESs." 
The   Baronet's     Bride.    By  Idrn.  Mat  Aones 
Fleming 

Sweet  Cymbellne.    By  Charles  Garticb. 
Mildred;  or.  the  Child  of  Adoption.     By 
Mrs.  Mary  J.  Holmes. 

The  Romance  of  a  Black  Veil.    By  Char- 
lotte .M.  Braeme. 

Mrs.  Oeoffrey.    By  "The  Ducess." 
Left  Alone.  By  Mrs.  Emma  D.  E.  N.  Sodtoworth. 
Macaria.    By  Augusta  J.  Evans. 
Dora  Deane  and  Maggie  Miller.    By  Mrs. 
Mary  J.  Holmes. 

Signa's    Sweetheart.      By     Charlottb     .M. 
Braeme. 

Beauty's  Daughters.    By  "The  Duchess." 
Twlxt  Smile  and  Tear.   ByCHAUUESOABViCK. 
High  Tided.    By  Etta  W.  Pierce. 
Miss  McDonald   and  Rosamond.     By  Mrs. 
Mary  J.  Holmes. 
The   Sin  of  a,  Lifetime.     By  Chablottb  U. 

0|k  A  RMIS 

Faith  and  Unfalth.    By  "The  Duchess." 

A  Willful  Maid.    By  Charles  Gabvioh. 

A  Dark  Deed.    By  Etta  W.  Piehck. 

The  Homestead  on  the  i'ill.^ide  and  The 

Rector  of  St.  Mark's.  ByMrt>.  MakyJ  Holmes. 

Dumaresq's    Temptation.     By    Charlottb 

M.  Braeme. 

A  Mental  Struggle.    By  "The  Duchess." 


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